Damn Your Eyes
by hellaace043
Summary: When her brother was a child, she had sworn to protect him from the monsters hiding underneath his bed. However, when they encounter the vicious and brutal Saviors, she will have to find a way to protect herself from the man who ensnared her heart. She'll have to protect herself from Negan.
1. Chapter 1: Meeting the Man

**So, after the newest finale of The Walking Dead, I decided to take the chance and write a fanfiction for the story. I haven't read much of the comics, so the characters (especially Negan) will be more like what we see in the show.**

 **Anything in italics indicates a flashback. Also, the story (except for what is in italics) will probably be set some time in season 5/season 6.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the Walking Dead. The only characters I own are the ones not recognized or seen in the show.**

* * *

 _Yelling rippled throughout the home, shattering the peace they once built. Her father punched the wall, and the carved sign above the front door swayed slightly. The television was blaring, the volume turned to max, and Beatrice cradled her brother as if he was a child again, not the sixteen year old boy he was now._ _Her decorated hands covered his ears as a fiery fury brewed in her gut. Inhaling a deep breath, she climbed off the battered couch, helping her scared_ _brother do the same._

 _"Go grab the bags, Tristan. The ones we stashed in the closet," she said._

 _He bolted upstairs, silent and swift, and Beatrice nervously drummed_ _her fingers against her thighs, her rings trembling and clinking together. She heard the shrill_ _scream_ _of her mother, the sound of a sharp slap against flesh. The stairs creaked as Tristan returned, both backpacks dangling_ _from his slender arms. She quickly snagged one of the packs and approached the front door, her brother lingering behind her. His hand slipped into her's, his palm damp and warm. The door refused to make a sound_ _as they stepped outside, car keys hooked around Beatrice's index finger._

* * *

Stoking the dancing fire, Tristan glanced back at his sister, his brow furrowed and his shoulders tense. She was pacing the length of their camp, her hands shoved into her pockets. There was a vicious gleam in her grey eyes, and sweat dampened her skin, her clothes glued to her body. Despite the short amount of time that passed, Beatrice had aged considerably. There was a permanent tension in her face, which had once retained a beautiful youthfulness, and her teeth were always digging into her lips, chewing on them until they bled and stung. She was like a cornered carnivore waiting for the moment she could run free and without restraint.

"Y'know, you're face will stay like that if-Bertie?"

She went still, eyes focused on the trees. They were terribly dark, an unfathomable shadow looming over their sad camp, and she felt the burning sensation of eyes peering back at her. The hairs on her neck and arms prickled as her stomach twisted with apprehension. A heavy silence weighed down the air, thickened the tension, and the forest was placid, a stolid creature surrounding the duo.

"Tristan, grab your gun."

He'd barely felt the weapon against his palm before a hoard of men emerged from the trees, their guns raised and ready to fire. The branches beneath their feet snapped like brittle bones, a sound that chilled his blood.

"Now, you don't need to be doin' that, little man," a mustachioed man said, his tone light yet malicious. He stared down at Beatrice with eyes like tar, his lips curled into a sneer. "Grab their guns, boys. Before the boss gets here."

The camp became a tornado of activity as the men overturned everything in their brutal search for weapons. Beatrice was huddled next to her brother, eyes frantically following each of the survivors that swept past.

"Bea...what are we going to do?" Tristan asked, a tremor in his tinny voice. There was a slur to his words, a show of his obvious fear of the invaders.

"Well, ain't this a fuckin' shit show!"

* * *

 _The grocery store was raided, the shelves toppled onto the linoleum floor. Clutching her brother's sweaty hand, Beatrice carefully examined the disaster_ _they found themselves in. She wasn't_ _sure how this happened or why the streets were so empty, but a part of her feared the discovery of the truth._

 _Somewhere_ _nearby, a wet sound_ _resonated from a place she could not see, a sound that made her cringe. It brought about memories of watching her father stir a glass bowl filled_ _with macaroni salad for the family picnic. However, the stench seeping into every crack_ _of crevice of the room was far more unpleasant. It was as if someone had tossed a mixture_ _of feces and laundry from a year ago into the quaint space, allowing it to fester in the scorching heat._

 _"Oh, God. What the hell is that?!" They'd_ _turned the corner and immediately stopped, staring wide-eyed at the creature currently hunched over a corpse, flies nervously_ _buzzing around its head. At the sound of the voice, the creature turned, its attention no longer on the feast placed before it. "Oh, shit! Tristan, run!"_

 _They barreled out of the store, hands locked together, and flung themselves into the car Beatrice_ _had stolen from their parents. The engine sputtered, belching out a cloud of black smoke, and the creature lumbered towards them, walking on a single leg as its other one was bent at a perverse angle, bones jutting out like rude spikes. The car barely made it out of the parking lot before a hoard of undead creatures discovered the source of the noise, their groans and wails forever echoing inside the siblings' minds._

* * *

The man with the baseball bat coiled in barbed wire was an anomaly to Beatrice. He sauntered out of the trees, a charismatic skip in his step. She understood that he held their lives in his hands, yet there was a charming quality to his expression. In any other situation, she would've enjoyed his presence. However, this wasn't a casual and accidental meeting at some clichéd coffee shop; this was Hell. Barely taking notice of the other survivors, the man approached the brother and sister duo and grinned, the bat slung over his shoulder.

"Sorry for the way my men have been treating you. They're fuckin' barbarians if you don't restrain 'em!" He said, a bit of laughter falling from his lips. "Now, I'm gonna be fuckin' polite and ask your names before the real storm hits."

Fidgeting, Tristan saw his sister roll her eyes and lean back, arms folded over her chest. It was a show of defiance he'd seen on multiple occasions, especially when she would have an unpalatable encounter with their heated parents. However, an argument with them wouldn't risk her life; it wouldn't result in having her head bashed in. Nonetheless, Beatrice simply ignored the man situated before them and continued to watch the multitude of survivors consuming what was left of their camp.

"Now, that's really not cool, sweetheart," the man teased, a clear frustration rooted deep in his voice, "I'm tryin' to be fuckin' polite, and you're going to act like a bitch. Let's try again. I'm Negan. What's your name?"


	2. Chapter 2: Breaking Down

**New chapter! I apologize for the delay. Some drama happened, but I wanted to get this put ad quickly as possible. I am so happy you all are enjoying it! Constructive criticism is welcome!**

 **Disclaimers: I do not own anything from the Walking Dead. The only thing I own are the characters not seen in the show.**

* * *

 _Their already limited supply of food and water had vanished some few_ _weeks after their journey into the new world. The car was on its last stretch as oil dripped an endless trail down the road. And, as the days grew longer, the heat intensified to unbearable levels. Slumped against his_ _sister, Tristan was on_ _the verge of blacking out as the sweat soaked through his thin shirt, doing little to cool his baking body. Time melted into a powerful adversary_ _, a villain with the lives of the people in its slimy hands._

 _"Do you remember the party mom threw for you seventh birthday?" Tristan asked, his mouth akin_ _to a desert. He smacked his lips, and he swore he saw flakes of flesh flutter_ _to the cracked concrete._

 _"What 'bout it?" There was a tremor in Beatrice's voice, a shake she couldn't rid_ _herself of._

 _"You shoved me off the slide because_ _you were pissed that everyone was focused on me," he retorted, hoping the conversation_ _would distract her from the cruel heat._

 _"Yeah. I was a bitch. Still hasn't_ _changed, I_ _guess." She attempted a laugh just seconds before_ _her body gave out. They hit the ground hard, Tristan barely able to catch himself before his head slammed against the road._ _"Well, I'm_ _out."_

 _Shaking, he scrambled to pull her beneath the shade of the trees, his hands roughly pushing away the hair that stuck to her face._

 _"Don't_ _you give up like that, Bea. What would Uncle Rory say?"_

* * *

The blindfold furiously scraped across her face as she stumbled onto the road, her foot catching the ledge on the van they had shoved her into. She managed to catch a few glimpses of the world through the thin fabric, but she was ignorant of the area. However, her main concern wasn't where she was; her main concern belonged to finding her brother. What the hell had they done to him?

"Home sweet fuckin' home!" Negan said with a flourish of his arms, waving Lucille like a flag of triumph. "Get her damn blindfold off!"

She grimaced as the fabric was ripped away from her eyes, exposing her to an intense light. Beatrice snarled and turned her head, eyes frantically searching for Tristan. Panic flared up in her belly as a sick realization settled in her mind: they'd taken him away. He was not walking amongst the older men, and she saw nothing that hinted at his presence. Which meant he was without her. He was alone and probably scared, and she couldn't protect him from the dark thoughts in his mind.

"What the hell did you do with my brother?!" She cried out, her eyes narrowed and fueled with an intense rage, "If you touch a hair on his head. I'll-!"

"You'll what? You're without a motherfucking weapon, and it's my fucking men who are carrying your ass around. So, cut the shit and realize you're fucked! Literally." A smirk sharpened the corner of his mouth as Negan faced her, more amused than angered by her words.

It was clear to Beatrice that she was outnumbered, and she had little choice in the matter. But she wasn't going to let this douchebag order her around. She was going to find her brother and get out of this shithole.

 _The house was in shambles as tiles fluttered from the rotting roof and the stairs nearly gave out when Tristan stepped onto the porch. His sister had her arms hooked around his waist in a weak attempt to remain standing, her face buried into the curve of his neck. Her breath was hot along his skin, a furnace of scorching heat, and she refused to loosen her crushing grip._

 _"Don't_ _worry, Bea-Bea. I got you_ _," he whispered, his voice sounding far different_ _than what he was used to. He'd never_ _dealt with his sister when she was like this, especially since she refused to show her weaknesses to_ _him. To appear afraid was a sign of breaking down_ _, and Beatrice Hawkins didn't break_ _down._

 _A low creak sounded from beneath his tattered shoes, an explosion of_ _noise in the otherwise silent home. Frozen, Tristan shifted his sister and lowered her into a moth-eaten chair, his eyes dancing along the eternity of_ _space. He heard little indication of a Geek wandering around; nonetheless, he continued to hold his knife to_ _his chest._ _Sparing Beatrice a glance to assure himself of her safety, he cautiously scoured the home for danger, listening to the quick_ _breaths that sputtered past his sister's chapped lips. Her chest was moving quickly, a flurry of movement as if the air was being sucked from her lungs by some invisible creature._

 _"Don't_ _worry, sis. I got you. I promise."_

* * *

The room was consumed with darkness, a sliver of light beneath the door his only source of light. Rising from the concrete floor, he stood on unsteady legs, his knees knocking together like bells. Knowing the door would be locked, he approached the wall and dragged his fingers along the cracks and holes, hoping to find a form of escape. He felt the bumps and grooves in the paint, the chips that peeled away when his fingers grazed them. There was a distinct smell of something burned long ago, the remnants of the forgotten soul fluttering about the room like a lost butterfly. Tristan closed his eyes and listened the way his mother had told him to do a number of times when they walked outside at night. However, he wasn't listening for the song of the crickets or the pitter-patter of children outside. He was searching for his survival.

"Hey, I think the runt is up!" A voice chimed from outside the room just before Tristan heard the click of the lock. Rushing into the corner, he bunched his shirt up in his hands and paused, feigning innocence. A man of 40 years wandered into the room and flipped on a light, momentarily blinding the boy huddled in the corner. "Get yer ass up, kid. Boss has a few things to ask ya!" The man snarled, flashing a row of crooked and yellow teeth.

Hands grabbed at him, dragging him into the world he knew nothing of. He let himself relax as he carefully memorized the twists and turns they took through the maze of the building, the hands leaving bruises on his brown skin. They veered right and he was thrown forward, his slender body hitting the ground hard.

"Well, shit. He lasted longer than the last fucker we tossed in there!"

Biting his words, Tristan leaned back on his knees and sighed, awaiting his sentence from the Devil. The man towered above him, eyes gleaming beneath the shadow painted across his face. Reaching up, he smoothed down the stubble lining his strong jaw and smiled.

"Your sister has some real balls, kid. More than some of my own men! She's a fuckin' feisty one. Really going to enjoy havin' her around."

Bastard, he thought. But he didn't dare speak. One wrong word could result in something far worse than what his mind conjured up.

* * *

 _The boy was barely older than Tristan, yet he seemed much older than his face showed. He stumbled from the pantry, his clothes tattered and smeared with vomit and the blood of the Geeks. Blond hair was plastered across his forehead as sweat dampened his pale flesh._ He'd barely _taken a step forward when a shovel slammed into the back of his head, throwing him against the counter. He bounced his face off the cabinets, blood viciously pouring from the cut sliced across his forehead, and groaned._

 _Startled, Tristan turned just as his sister limped past him, anger written across her twisted face. She swung the_ _rusty shovel she'd been_ _carrying around, and it smacked into the boy's arm_ _, a cry of pain falling like grace from his lips._

 _"Beatrice! Stop! He's not_ _a Geek!" Tristan reached for her arm, but she tore away from him, his voice drowned out by the blur of thoughts in her head._

 _She swung again and again and again until the boy said no more. He was sprawled out across the tile floor, a pool of blood spreading like fire. His face was turned towards Tristan, eyes wide and mouth open, but he was silent. There was a moment in which Tristan wished he could be like the wizards in his books-the powerful ones that could change anything without saying a word-but this was reality. The boy before him wasn't going_ _to disappear in a cloud of smoke, and Beatrice had just murdered an innocent survivor_ _. Looking at his sister, he watched as her expression changed from violent to shocked, a flip that occurred_ _in a minor second. She stumbled back and slumped against_ _the counter, the shovel abandoned by the corpse. He heard her body hit the ground as the silence settled in, a callous and overwhelming silence._

* * *

Beatrice was turned away from the door, her long legs tucked beneath her. Eyes trained on the wall, she kept her attention off the footsteps behind her, yet she was ultimately aware of another presence in the room. Frowning, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The presence was far different from Negan; it was much softer and familiar, a welcome embrace she found herself yearning for. Shifting slightly, she uncurled her legs and stood, turning to face her unexpected guest.

And, in that very moment, her world came crashing down. She knew those grey eyes, the laugh lines wrinkling their corners, yet the permanent smile she was accustomed to had faded, leaving behind remnants of a past long forgotten. She heard the smooth slur of his words, recalled the feel of his hands in her's as they twirled across the neatly trimmed yard. However, the man before her was not the man she remembered.

This was not the Uncle Rory she'd grown up beside, the one who pushed her swing too high and let her stay up into the late hours of night.

"Hello, ma chérie. Been a long time," he whispered, his voice infused with guilt.

Without thinking, Beatrice took a fearsome swing at him, knocking his much larger being against the wall. He knocked his head on the concrete, black dots speckled like stars across his vision. He saw her fist some few inches away from his face when a gun slammed into the back of her head, rendering her unconscious. She collapsed, and Rory carefully picked her up, seeing the little girl he'd basically raised.

"I'm so sorry, Beatrice. For everything."


	3. Chapter 3: Alone

**I am shocked at how good the reception to this story has been, and it makes me happy that I'm actually doing something I enjoy and that others are enjoying. Here's the next chapter.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the Walking Dead. The only thing I own are the characters not shown in the television show.**

* * *

 _When he woke, Tristan knew his sister_ _was gone, the home now a shell of_ _intense silence. There was a single piece of burnt paper stuck underneath the bedroom door_ _, yet he couldn't read_ _the rushed handwriting Beatrice produced. The creak of the stairs was deafening as he approached the scene of the crime, the sound of shovel meeting flesh and bone ricocheting between his ears._

 _The boy's body had disappeared_ _from the kitchen floor_ _, leaving only the remains of the murder splattered across_ _the counter tops and the walls. The atrocious scent had faded, but he could still envision_ _the smell floating among the_ _particles in the air, a virus waiting to ensnare its next victim._

 _Sweeping a hand through the mess of_ _his hair, Tristan lowered himself to the floor and closed his eyes, waiting for_ _Beatrice to return._

* * *

The barbed wire bat gleamed red as light cut through the cracked glass, reaching across the concrete floor, and Negan slowly faced his newest victim.

A man. A man who had snuck into his Sanctuary and infected the Saviors with thoughts of rebellion and riots. A man who had tainted the loyalty of his people.

"Good fuckin' riddance," he said as he watched a few of his men grab the traitor and carry him away into the shadows. Smirking, the leader of the Saviors stalked the halls of the compound, his ears barely picking up the sounds of his people lingering around corners. Someone was screaming, a cracked voice destroyed by dehydration and starvation.

"Hey, boss! The girl woke up! And she ain't real happy," Dwight yelled before returning to his work, watching Negan from his peripheral vision.

Negan quickly altered his course to reach the room where the girl was being kept, Lucille swinging from his hand. Upon turning the corner, he saw his newest recruit standing by the door, a tattered hood pulled over his face. Wisps of bright red hair stuck out like shards of fire, the only color in the dark hallway.

"What the fuck is your name again? Rey or some suburban shit like that?" Negan asked as he approached the door.

"Rory, sir. Rory Hawkins."

"Right. Rory. Because I'm pretty fuckin' sure I heard some of men sayin' these kids belonged to you?"

There was a pause. Rory kept his face foward, never once looking at Negan, but he nodded, his fingers tightening around his gun. He straightened his shoulders and bit back his words.

"Well, happy fucking family reunion!"

* * *

 _Days flew past like a gust of wind. Unaware of how many days they'd been_ _wandering the land, Tristan shuffled around the_ _empty house, his stomach in a permanent knot of distress. He felt on the verge of vomiting until Beatrice returned safely. But he wasn't so_ _sure she would._

 _He crawled underneath the eaten bedsheets and closed his eyes, praying this hell would end_ _soon._ _The bed embraced him, coiling around his small body, and he pressed further into_ _the matress, dreaming of a time when all wasn't falling_ _apart._ _He yearned to be wrapped up in his bedsheets, his cheek pressed against a cool pillow. He could hear the soft humming of his mother, a sweet and slow tune she'd sang_ _since the time he was born._

 _"Oi! What're doin'?"_

* * *

She was trembling. Blood stained the skin around her nails from her constant chewing, the fingers bent and bruised. Hunched over, she had her eyes closed and her hands flattened against her aching stomach, tears burning the corners of her eyes. The world was digging its nails into her flesh, shredding her apart from the inside.

"Good fuckin' morning, sleeping beauty!" Negan bellowed, a charming yet malicious smile stretched to his ears. The light behind him illuminated his tall silhouette, enhancing the intimidating nature of his being. His amused eyes sparked as he slinked towards her. "Well, don't you look like shit!"

Flinching, Beatrice turned away from him as a million tiny memories floated in a hoop around her head. She saw flashes of her mother, bright-eyed and glowing, and her father, tender hearted and handsome; she saw a baby tucked against her own chest, its wails like that of a banshee. She saw her uncle smiling down at her, a smile that she would soon destroy in the recesses of her brain.

"You 'bout to cry? What happened to the fuckin' feisty bitch I met a few hours ago? Y'know, I could always go to that fucking punk of a brother you brought with you."

Something intense scorched the nerves tangled up beneath her skin; her rage flared like a forest fire, and she leapt from the bed, flinging her body towards her kidnapper. His strong arms hooked around her like a vice, pinning her small body against his own. She squirmed, her hands held close to her sides, and slammed her head into his chin, knocking him off balance. Beatrice hit the ground hard and closed her eyes at the shock of the impact, biting down on her tongue.

"There she is!" Negan said, not an ounce of anger laced into his words. "There she fucking is!"

Opening her eyes, Beatrice saw the blood dripping from his split lip, the crimson liquid blossoming across his shirt. Despite the injury, he was smiling, triumph burning in his face.

"Fuck you! You stay the fuck away from him and stay the fuck away from me!" She screamed, "I'll bash your head in if you lay one hand on his head!"

* * *

 _The woman was quite old, her body tormented by the hand of Time. A long and torn cloak hung from her thin shoulders, swallowing her small form, but Tristan could see_ _the gun she_ _tucked away inside the cloak. Her blonde hair was shot through with silver, and her eyes were barely open as the skin around it sagged low. Shuffling foward, the woman cautiously poked at Tristan, watching with sharp eyes as he nearly fell from the matress._

 _"What're doin_ _' in my home, boy?" Her voice wavered and cracked, but she managed to sound strong._

 _"I-I...my sister and I were_ _just lookin' for shelter, and we found this house! We didn't realize_ _anyone lived here!"_

 _"Bullshit! There is another boy livin' here! My grandson! Where is he? I asked him to hide in the pantry until I came_ _back! What did you do to him?"_

 _A skeletal hand crawled down Tristan's spine, dragging along his brown skin. He shivered and crossed his arms, the vicious image like a camera flash going off in his head. The boy sprawled out across the linoleum floor, his head caving in from the abuse of the shovel, his blood like smears of paint on the walls_ _. A knot twisted in his stomach, and his body fell forward, the few contents of his insides spilling onto the_ _ground._

 _"Where is my grandson, boy?!" The old woman demanded, crooked hands reaching for her gun._

 _"I'm sorry_ _. I'm so_ _, so, so sorry. I...she didn't mean_ _to. He just appeared out of nowhere. She...she was trying to pro-protect me! She...she didn't_ _mean to hurt him!" Tristan was weeping, his young face a mess of snot and vomit and hot tears._

 _Realization dawned upon the woman, and she charged forward, her claws sharpened like a harpy and furiously making_ _grabs at him._

 _Tristan wasn't sure_ _when he grabbed his knife, nor how he managed to hold it so steady. But he was aware of the woman releasing a final breath of life as the blade sunk into_ _her stomach, slicing through wrinkled_ _, grey flesh as if it were butter. Her eyes burned for a final second before she went still, her blood drenching his shirt and face. Quickly he_ _shifted to remove her corpse from him, using the heel of his shoe to destroy any chance of her rising up again, his mind and senses numb._ _Someone had sucked away_ _the feelings in his being, wiping away the slate and making it clean._

 _"She was_ _just trying to protect me, lady."_

* * *

"I brought you food, kid," a heavy voice said.

Turning on his heels, Tristan faced the boy standing near the door, a silver tray balanced in his rough hands. He was a giant, standing a head taller than him, and the clothes he wore clung to his muscular form. His black hair was pushed back, slick curls tucked behind his small ears. Thick, leather boots adorned his feet, dusty and stained with dirt and other pieces of the earth. He smirked, and something deep inside of Tristan swelled, something warm.

"Thanks," he responded, his voice just barely above a whisper. He was staring at the boy, the warmth burning in his cheeks, and he felt sweat dampen his hands.

"No problem, kid. Name's Rufio. See you later." And, with that, he was gone.

Oh, shit.

* * *

 **So, yeah. That's how that ended. If anyone has any suggestions or constructive criticism, message me! I like to know when I'm doing anything wrong in regards to characterization.**

 **Thank you for reading and reviewing!**


	4. Chapter 4: Time

**Another chapter! And this one was fun because it's actually centered around another character, except for the flashbacks.**

 **For reference to how the characters look:**

 **Beatrice: Devery Jacobs (the cover photo)**

 **Tristan: Alfred Enoch (younger)**

 **Rory: Oscar Isaac (with red hair)**

 **Rufio: Rami Malek**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the Walking Dead. I only own the characters that are not shown in the show.**

* * *

 _The rusted blade sawed through the brown locks, removing the hair piece by agonizing piece. Clutching the weapon in her trembling hand, she could feel the pockets of pain as the knife tugged hard on her hair, roughly pulling at her tender scalp. A shaky breath fell from her lips as brown strands of jagged and dirty hair circled her feet, a ring of frustration and fear. The blade sliced across her skin, and she startled, a pained groan like a whisper upon on her dry_ _lips._

 _Beatrice stopped as trickles of blood dripped down her face, streaming through the_ _lines of mud she'd smeared_ _on her skin. Closing her eyes, she let the knife fall, and it clattered against the ground._

* * *

Time was a poison. It crawled through the day and ended on strong feet, yet it beat down those who could not follow. In a moment where very few places believed in the concept, Time was forgotten. Forgotten but not gone.

For Rufio, Time reminded him of his mom. She was always watching the clock as if patiently waiting for something-anything-to happen. It was because of her that he had spent the first few weeks of the apocalypse trying to find a working watch or a calendar not torn or painted red.

It was because of her love affair with Time that he was alive and she wasn't.

The watch he wore was cracked but still ticking, the only constant thing in his life. He wandered the halls of the sanctuary listening to the watch, praying it would never cease.

"Hey, newbie! Boss wants you on guard duty!" A grey-haired Savior yelled from the darkest depths of the compound.

"What happened to the Hawkins dude?" Rufio asked as he tapped the face of his watch, eyes following the steady movement of the arms.

"Don't know. Boss says he's got somethin' planned for him. Maybe you should take it up with Negan. Or you could ask that boy you've been beggin' to see every damn day!" The Savior teased, a crooked grin sliced across his face.

"Why is that any of your damn business?" Rufio shoved past him, their shoulders colliding, and went in search of his post.

"It ain't. I just didn't peg ya for a homo."

* * *

 _Wind kissed the skin of her neck, bringing her relief from the unbearable heat. She was struggling to follow the road, her lack of food and drink weighing down her ability to function._

 _"Bertie?" A disembodied voice called from...somewhere. She wasn't sure_ _where. Or who it was. Or how they_ _knew her name. "Honey? Come to mommy."_

 _She spun around and stumbled as a young woman stepped onto_ _the road, her pastel yellow dress billowing in_ _the wind. The sun shone down on her tan skin, and the woman began to glow_ _._ Beatrice walked _forward and reached out; the world grew larger, the trees like green giants curling towards the_ _sky._

 _"Bea-Bea, come to mommy."_

 _Arms engulfed her body, and she clung to her mother, tears spilling down her cheeks. She clutched the back the woman's dress and held her close, wishing they were far away_ _from here._

 _"Mommy's got you, baby. Mommy's got_ _you," the woman whispered, "Mommy will protect you from this place."_

 _"I miss you, mommy."_

 _The woman sighed and nodded, her dark hair tickling Beatrice's neck._

 _"I know, baby. Mommy misses you, too."_

* * *

The boy was snoring as his small body curled around the pillow, his chest rising and falling slowly. Rufio stepped further into the black space, noticing the empty tray by the foot of the bed. As he crossed the room to retrieve the tray, a peculiar sound ensnared his attention. He glanced at the boy and watched as he began to hum in his sleep, a choppy melody abandoned long ago.

Rufio tilted his head and knelt down, running his gloved finger along the scar that followed the line of the boy's jaw. His face was soft, devoid of the terror of the new world. There was something in his expression, something Rufio had dreamt of. The boy rolled onto his back and giggled, his skin sensitive to the gentle touch.

"What the fuck are you doing, Rufio?!" Dwight stalked the doorway, his twisted face consumed by the vicious burn given to him by Negan. "You were told to guard the prisoner. Not fuckin' caress his face!"

Rolling his eyes, Rufio stood and sauntered across the length of the room, standing much taller than Dwight. He glared down at the Savior and smirked.

"What're going to do, D? Snitch to Negan? Kiss his ass? Because I'm pretty sure he wouldn't mind takin' Lucille to your ugly mug," Rufio growled. A beast formed in his eyes, a monster of fire and blood, its claws like talons of gold.

Dwight backed away and crossed his arms, sparing the boy a quick glance. He gave Rufio a look and walked off, the gun bouncing against his hip.

"What was that?"

Looking over his shoulder, he examined the sleepy face of the boy and shrugged.

"Don't worry 'bout it, kid. Just some drama in the family."

* * *

 _The house was as she remembered, but there was something_ off about the _air around it. She glanced over her shoulder as she grasped her mother's hand, and the air was ripped from her lungs._

 _Geeks, thousands of them, were stumbling towards them, flesh and fabric hanging from the shells of their being. Groans of hunger invaded her ears, and she began to run, tugging her mother forward._

 _"Momma! We have to get inside!"_

 _Her mother threw her head back and laughed as if Beatrice had told her some dirty joke she had heard at school. The front door swung open with a dramatic flair_ _, and her father stepped onto the porch, his face young and lively._

 _"Hello, honey! Hello, my sweet child!" He embraced them_ _with his strong arms, nearly dragging them into the comfort of their home. Behind them, the sound of the Geeks dissipated, and Mother Nature's song resumed once more. "Oh, my beautiful child. I have missed you like the stars miss the moon on a cloudy night!"_

 _Beatrice took in the place she had forgotten some time ago, breathing in the sweet smells of her father's cooking. Warmth enveloped her body, and she grinned, the worries of the world gone. She wandered past the wall of photographs, a wall of family vacations and Christmas feasts._

 _"There is someone here that really wants to see you, baby," her mother said as she led Beatrice into_ _the living room._

 _The room soured as her Uncle Rory rose_ _from the couch, the space around his feet_ _black and burnt. He was smiling, and the teeth he cared so much for rotted_ _away, leaving behind an empty abyss._

 _"Momma, I don't wanna_ _see him. He broke his promise!" Beatrice screamed as she stomped her feet, feeling much smaller as seconds ticked by._

 _"Oh, don't worry about_ _that, baby girl. He didn't mean_ _it, did you?"_

 _Rory only smiled wider, his eyes like_ _pits of pure ink._

* * *

Rufio tapped the watch face once more as he turned the corner, annoyed by its lack of cooperation. He tipped his head back and came to a sudden halt, his attention captured by the cluster of men surrounding an open door.

"Shit. She's so fuckin' hot! See that ass? Think Negan will mind if w-!"

He barreled through them and yanked the door shut, startling the woman inside. Facing the men, he snatched the axe hooked to his belt and swung, the blade some few inches from the man at the front.

"What the fuck, man? We were just havin' a little fun 'fore the boss shows up! Just a little harmless fun!"

The fire in Rufio's belly surged and he marched forward, the axe hanging haphazardly from his fingers.

"Was it just harmless fun when you murdered my mother because she wouldn't have sex with any of you? Huh?! What the fuck do you have to say to that, you sick bastards!?" Red bloomed across his face as he swung the axe once more, the blade catching one of the Savior's shirts. The men quickly scattered as if they had cornered a starving lion and had teased it too much.

"You still holdin' a grudge on that shit, Ruf? It was a fuckin' accident! Real shame, too. She was a sexy one! Would've loved seein' he-ACK!"

Blood spurted from the slit in the man's throat, a waterfall of red, and he collasped, the blood pooling around his body. A hand seized Rufio, and he felt the weight of the watch disappear, leaving behind a sense of emptiness. He stumbled and swung his axe, but he was met with only air. The Saviors scampered off like scared mice, abandoning the corpse of their friend. Shaking his head, Rufio divided the brain into multiple parts and walked off, his face gleaming with sweat and blood.

* * *

 _She darted upstairs, dodging the hands of her parents. They called for her, but their voices were shrill and intangible. The nursery door flew open, and she jogged across the threshold, the world around her_ _going dark. Hearing the click of the lock, Beatrice limped towards the crib by the cracked window, seeing a familiar tuft of dark hair. She curled her weak arms around his small body and cradled him against her chest, a shield to protect him_ _from the monsters in the shadows._

 _"Wake up! Bertie! You have to wake up!" The baby wailed, pummeling his chubby fists against her shoulders. He squirmed in her arms until she dropped him, his body fading away like a phantom. The blanket he was wrapped in turned to ash, and Beatrice was alone again._

 _Suddenly, light slapped her face, and she startled awake, the gravel digging into her flesh. Leaning forward with_ _her palms flattened against the concrete, she analyzed the stretch of_ _road on either side of her. There was no mother_ _in a yellow dress and no uncle with a mouth of darkness. She was alone, and she was scared. More scared than she ever had been in her lifetime._

 _Geeks blundered onto the road, closing in around her. Aware of the danger she had put herself in, Beatrice snatched her knife from her boot and stood, breaking out into a sprint before she was completely surrounded by the undead._

* * *

Beatrice was shoved to her knees before the leader, her hands painfully bound behind her back. She scowled at the impudent smile that found its way across Negan's handsome face. Leaning back on her legs, she waited.

"You know, you've been really fuckin' difficult. But I am a patient and understanding man. I know this is hard for you. Really fuckin' hard. So, I'm gonna make a deal with you," Negan said, "You agree to be one of my wives, and you get every bit of protection and pleasure the rest of them get. All you have to fuckin' do is play the role to absolute perfection."

The Saviors snickered and nudged each other, eying her like a piece of meat. She squirmed in her position and clenched her fists, ignoring the steady rise of air brewing in her gut. Beatrice was going to kill this man when she had the fucking chance.

"If I say no? What are you going to do?"

Negan wore a shit-eating grin as he nodded his head toward the doors, watching as they dragged out his newest recruit. The red hair he was known for had wilted, sticking to his face as sweat dampened his skin. The Saviors threw Rory down before Beatrice and stepped back, buzzing with excitement.

"You have a choice. Of course, you could let him live and all you'd have to do is be my wife. Or let him die and continue sleeping in that shithole. Now, I know what I would do if it were my family."

A smile broke out across Beatrice's face as she glared at her uncle, ignoring the blur of terror in his eyes. He knew her choice; her knew her choice long before they dragged him out there.

"Negan, you should've done some fuckin' research on the history of my family. I've been wantin' that bastard dead since he caused my brother to end up in a fuckin' hospital! So, no. I won't take your goddamn deal. Better yet, I'll let you take your deal and shove it up your ass!"

* * *

 **Well, there it is. Thank you for enjoying the story! Any constructive criticism will be accepted!**


	5. Chapter 5: Getting What He Wants

**Another chapter! I'm really feeling great about writing this fanfiction, especially with how well it's received. You all make this better for me! Thank you for reading and being so incredible.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the Walking Dead. All I own are the characters not seen in the show.**

* * *

Appalled, Negan tangled his hand in Rory's red hair, yanking his head back. The man hissed through gritted teeth and balled his hands into fists, silently cursing the man and his army of fuck-ups.

"I thought you fuckin' said you were family?!" The leader yelled, his anger rising exponentially. He reached for Lucille as his senses numbed, his nerves ablaze with fury.

"We've had a little setback in the whole dynamic of family," Rory said, the burn of his niece's eyes like the sun's slap upon his flesh.

"A little setback!? A little setback is when it rains on a family picnic! Having your nephew get beaten by his homophobic stepfather isn't a little setback! Especially since you couldn't keep a fuckin' secret!" The rope around her wrist dug into her skin, burning and scraping against the angry skin.

Intrigued, the leader of the Saviors faced Beatrice and crossed the space until his boots just barely touched her knees. She kept her grey eyes on her uncle, wishing something would strike him down.

"Well, it looks like I'll have to try a little harder. A real shame, too. You were a good worker, Hawkins."

* * *

 _He had walked for days, his legs barely acknowledging the pain of being overworked. Something inside called for rest, but he refused any protests until he found her. Until he found Beatrice and they freed themselves from this place. The knife had been abandoned_ _for a sawn off he found in the basement_ _of the old woman, and the weapon felt like an extension of his bones._

 _Inside he was crumbling, falling apart, and he could feel the internal fire waning. Tristan was losing himself to the influences of the new world, becoming something stronger than the weak boy he once was._

 _The first few survivors_ _he saw while on his own were simple people, their brains diminished by_ _the overwhelming use of_ _Marijuana and alcohol. They stumbled around like_ _blindfolded children, gigging as_ _if the world wasn't trying_ _to kill them. He had wandered into the store in search of supplies, eyes following each_ _of them as if he was a vulture and they were preparing to die._

 _"Hey! Another bro! How are you doin'?" A woman called from behind the shelves, waving her tan arm with a vigor he had abandoned some time ago._

 _He waved them off and gathered what few_ _supplies they'd left_ _for him, his other hand holding on to the backpack. They were watching him as if he were a lost dog, taking in his thin form and his dimpled cheeks. They viewed him_ _as nothing else but another survivor trying to thrive in the world._

 _"Man, we have a camp if you want to come with us," a boy said, placing his hand on Tristan's shoulder._

 _The touch sent a number of alarms off in his mind and he turned, facing the_ _boy. He was on the shorter side, his shirt unbuttoned and his shorts hanging loose on his hips. Though stained and dry, the boy's hair was perfectly tied into a_ _bun._

 _Nudging him off, Tristan grabbed_ _the last of the bandages on the shelf before him and approached the door, the sawn off hidden beneath his cloak-the cloak he'd stolen_ _from the old woman. He had raided her home, becoming someone else entirely._

 _"You sure, man? We've_ _got plenty of space. Enough for you and anyone else that might be with you."_

 _Beatrice. His sister. The one who_ _had left him to fend for himself while she went off and moped. But also the one who had protected him from harm. She was his sister, yet..._

* * *

They threw her into a room she did not know. A bed was carefully placed against the wall, its sheets wrinkled and thrown to the side, but the room itself was bare. Rising from the cold floor, Beatrice gingerly circled the open space, a feeling of apprehension settling in her stomach. She traced her fingertips along the wall when she neared it, searching for the cracks and crevices not seen in the dark.

"So, you're his new treasure," a cold voice chimed from behind her.

Beatrice turned, nearly tripping over her own feet, and faced the older woman standing by the door. In her hands was a tray, but it wasn't carrying food; clothes were neatly folded on its silver surface, the fabric cut from lace and flimsy material, and she quickly knew what they were meant to do.

"Why am I here? I didn't take his stupid his deal! He said I would be put back in my original cell," she said.

Rolling her eyes, the woman dropped the tray on the bed and reached for Beatrice, grabbing her shoulders. For a moment, neither of them spoke as the woman examined her every inch.

"You're a little bigger than the rest of the woman here. Surprised Negan even wanted you. He doesn't really go for...nevermind. The clothes will be a bit snug, but you better not tear them," she said before she leaned down, her breath tickling Beatrice's ear, "Just play the part, girl. It'll save you in the end."

The woman left her in that room she did not know, the silver tray gleaming in the slivers of light that poked through.

* * *

 _"No. I'm alone_ _, and I don't need_ _your help, especially since you'll be_ _dead in the next twenty-four hours," he answered, eyes trained on the darkening horizon. In his peripheral vision, he saw the approaching Geeks and quickly made his choice._

 _Without another word, he removed his sawn off, stepped outside, and fired a shot into the open sky, alerting all_ _of the near undead. The people inside the store yelped in surprise and huddled together, raising their rusted_ _knives and broken sticks. Tristan heard their battle cries as he walked off, listening for the moment in which all became quiet again._

 _He'd barely made it to the treeline when the screaming ceased, the hungry chomping of the Geeks echoing through the air. The gravel crunching like bone beneath his boots, Tristan disappeared down the road, the boy he had once been left behind at the grocery store_ _to be feasted on._

* * *

The clothes were on the silver tray when Negan returned to his room, Lucille cleaned and hanging from his hand. He carefully placed the bat by the door and tucked his hands into his pockets, searching every inch of the room for Beatrice. A cry sounded from behind him, and he sidestepped just seconds before she flung herself at him. She landed hard and groaned, lifting her body from the ground.

"You didn't put on the clothes," he stated as he watched her struggle to stand on her shaking legs, "And I picked them out for you."

Brushing the dirt and dust off her shirt, she sneered at him and put a great bit of distance between them. The light filtering through the window danced along his face, highlighting the dark shadow of stubble along his jaw. Smirking, Negan tilted his head, taking notice of how she stared at him. Beneath the hatred, there was something else, something filled with heat and yearning.

She huffed and snatched the clothes from the tray, flinging the flimsy material at him. They fluttered to the floor and lay there, the lace dusty and slightly torn.

"I'm not wearing anything you give me," she growled, "I don't give a fuck what you do to me or Rory. I won't be your wife!"

He chuckled, crossed his arms, and eyed her. She was refusing to meet his eyes as she twisted the hem of her shirt around her fingers. The fabric shifted, exposing the tan skin of her neck and collar.

"Alright," Negan said before stepping outside the room, Lucille in his hand once more.

Beatrice looked up in surprise.

"That's it? 'Alright'?! What the fuck?!" The door clicked shut, trapping her side of her new prison.

Everything went still. A deafening silence settled in the room, interrupted only by the snapping of the curtains. Standing in the heart of the space, Beatrice clenched and unclenched her fists, her nails carving into the tender flesh. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled; her skin rose with goosebumps as a chill swept across her body. She slowly blinked in the direction of the closed door, wondering if Negan had truly been there.

Then her system snapped.

* * *

 _The house was as it had been when he left it in search of supplies. He'd buried_ _both the old woman and her grandson some days ago, yet he couldn't recall_ _the exact amount_ _of time in which it_ _occurred. The minutes blurred together, a tornado of quick-time events and desperation._

 _He knew someone was inside the house the moment he stepped inside. Raising the empty sawn off, he moved his eyes into each and every corner, listening for the quick breaths of a survivor. A floorboard creaked, and he spun, his weapon pointed between the eyes of his older sister. However_ _, he couldn't recognize_ _her._

 _The girl was petrified, and Beatrice Hawkins wasn't one_ _to appear afraid, not even to Tristan. She seemed much younger, a child compared to the sister he remembered, and she was scared_ of him. _Her shoulders were trembling, yet she couldn't move_ _, her hands pressed against her sides._ _Blood and dirt and some unusual black substance was smeared across her skin, and she had chopped off nearly every inch of her hair, resulting in a choppy mess of jagged strands._

 _This was not his sister. At least not the one he had grown up with._

* * *

In some strange chance of luck, Negan found a way to get what he wanted. After leaving his room, a Savior alerted him to an unexpected attack from the Walkers. The chains around the gates were on the ground, allowing any and all undead to wander in. They'd already taken out a handful of Saviors before the rest took them down, killing them once more. Royally pissed, their leader decimated their kind, swinging Lucille until it was dripping with blood and brains.

In the midst of the battle, he discovered a single shoe. Small and stained, the shoe easily belonged to someone younger, a boy by the looks of it. He glanced at the feet of his men, taking notice that not a single one of them could ever wear it, and a thought bloomed in his mind.

"Dwight! Where's the other captive?" He asked, turning his head towards the rest of his army.

"I...I'm not sure, sir. I'll send some me-"

"No. Keep the fuckin' men here. And clean up this shit. I've got something to do."

Negan walked off, Lucille over his shoulder and the shoe hanging from his fist.

* * *

 _Tristan lowered his gun and stepped closer, trying to decipher the truth out of the girl in front of him. He carefully touched her face, watching the moment in which she broke down completely. She fell forward, and he caught her, his long arms encircling her body. With a sigh, he lead them over to the chair by the door and took a seat, cradling her as she had once done for him. Smoothing down her hair, he kissed her forehead and closed his eyes, wondering how this all had happened._

 _"I've got you, sis. I promise."_

* * *

Beatrice stumbled away from the window as the door opened, a solemn sound that filled her with dread. She watched as the man himself slowly entered the space, his head down and his shoulders low. The room suddenly felt smaller as he placed Lucille by the door and tentatively approached her. When he entered the light, she noticed the splatters of blood across his front, but it was his expression that frightened her the most.

He wouldn't look at her. His dark eyes darted along the lines of the floor, yet they never focused on her. Reaching up, Negan shoved a hand through his hair, ruining its slicked back perfection. After a moment, he finally stood straight and met her harsh yet concerned stare. There were a million infinitesimal emotions in his face, but she picked out one that wouldn't leave.

Regret. Maybe even a splash of guilt or sadness.

"What happened?" She asked, her voice small and barely a whisper of sound.

"Someone snapped the chain on the gates. Some Walkers got in. Killed some of my men. They...they got in the Sanctuary." He lifted his other arm, and Beatrice's eyes found the dirty shoe he had brought with him. They were familiar, the tattered shoelaces and faded designs bringing memories she had nearly lost. Her heart clenched as she stepped back, not trusting herself to speak. "My men were all outside, and the rooms were unattended. One of them got into...a Walker found him while he was sleeping."

"No. No, no, no. You're lying! He...he can't...he's not," she stammered as her eyes remained on the shoe. The bloodied and ruined shoe she knew so well. Her knees gave out, throwing her to the floor. Wrapping her arms around herself, she buried her face against her knees and sobbed.

Negan knelt down beside her and reached out, bringing her into his comfort. She didn't resist; she barely acknowledged his touch, his presence.

Her head bumped his chin as she scooted closer, her body trembling as if trapped in a perpetual wind. He held her to his chest, his attention drawn to the shoe some few feet away. He hadn't been sure if it even belonged to the boy, or if the boy was truly dead.

"I'm sorry, Beatrice. So very sorry."

* * *

 **There we go. Any constructive criticism is always welcome. And thank you again!**


	6. Chapter 6: What Have You Done?

**Another chapter! This one focuses more around flashbacks, so just a warning. Also, the Cajun French used in this was found on a website, so it may or may not be accurate.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the Walking Dead. I just own the characters not in the show or comics.**

 **Warning: intense and discriminating language**

* * *

 _She was wide awake on her fifth birthday, the arms on the clock ticking past midnight. Staring at the plastic stars glued to her ceiling, she fiddled with the hem of her sleep shirt and hummed quietly. Moonlight cut through the curtains and glittered across her skin like shards of crystal. Somewhere in the house, a cry of shock shattered the silence of the home. Startled, she shot up and sprinted out of her bedroom, her bare feet smacking_ _the floorboards. The door to her parent's room swung open as her pregnant mother waddled out, her nightgown damp_ _and clinging to her large body, her stepfather helping her_ _along._

 _"Mommy? What's happening_ _? Why are you all wet?" She asked, tugging on her long braids and_ _yanking the ties out. When neither answered, she shuffled closer and chewed on her lip, tears pickling her_ _eyes._

 _"Get back in your room, Bea-Bea. You need to sleep," her mother said through gritted teeth, pain written across her young face._

 _"But mommy!" She cried, reaching for you mother. A much larger hand pressed against her shoulder, shoving her to the floor. She stumbled and rubbed her eyes, staring up at her parents. Her stepfather glared at her before they disappeared outside, the cold air sweeping into the house._

 _Her grandmother arrived a short time later, a large floral bag hanging from her arm. The old woman tucked her in and read her a book Beatrice had memorized over the years, her face smothered by an oversized pillow and_ _her heart aching._

 _They didn't celebrate_ _her birthday that year. Or many years after that_.

* * *

"You need to get out of this room, Beatrice. It's not he-"

"I don't give a flyin' fuck about what's healthy or not! So, why don't you go shove that silver tray up your tight ass and leave me the fuck alone?"

Sherry rolled her eyes as she carefully placed the tray on the night stand, never once taking her attention off of Beatrice. Some days it felt like she was handling a child more than a grown (well, almost grown) woman. All she ever did was mouth off to the other wives and huff and puff, refusing to remove herself from the bed she had buried herself in.

"We have been given ord-"

"By who? I don't follow the orders of that man! The only orders I follow are-"

"Is she still bein' difficult?" Dwight swept into the room, his eyes automatically finding his wife by the bed. She glanced at him and managed a weak smile, scared any large amount of physical contact would result in the truth being released. Negan couldn't know about what they did behind closed doors. Ever.

"Of course."

"Y'know what?" Beatrice steadily rose from the bed and approached the woman, her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed. Sherry didn't move, didn't speak. "I just lost the only person in my life that fuckin' mattered. The only goddamn person. So, I'm sorry if I'm not all chipper and ready to play housewife with the rest of you. Now, get the fuck out of here and tell your boss to leave me the hell alone!"

Sherry stepped away from Beatrice and stomped out the bedroom, anger fueling her actions. Somewhere down the hall, another wife barely managed to step out of the woman's path before she was taken down.

"We're just tryin' to help, Bea," Dwight said.

"Don't call me that. _You_ don't get to call me that." Beatrice dropped onto the matress once again and closed her eyes, imagining what had happened that night her brother...yeah. She heard the click of Dwight's shoes before she was alone again, alone with her thoughts. "What happened to you, Tristan?"

* * *

 _The hospital room was crowded with people she did not know, voices she had never heard. The warm hand of her grandmother achieved nothing as the old woman gently pushed her_ _through the throng of family. She clung to the sheets hanging from the bed and looked up, staring at her sickly mother_ _through thick bangs. A chubby, red-faced child was wailing in her arms, swaddled in a bright blue blanket._

 _"Mommy, who is that? And why is he so_ _...loud?" Beatrice asked_ _, sucking on her thumb. She caught a glimpse of her stepfather lingering by an older couple she did not know, his hands rapidly moving._

 _"Oh, baby doll, this is your new brother. And you were just as loud when you were_ _born, Bea-Bea," her mother whispered, "Do you wanna hold him, baby?"_

 _She stilled as her mother carefully placed_ _the squalling creature in her arms_ _. It wiggled and writhed, its red face scrunched up in anger. The blue blanket scraped across her skin, and she felt her stomach twist as he pressed his round face_ _into her armpit. She startled as his breath tickled her skin, and her grip tightened._

 _"Careful, honey. Don't want_ _to hurt him."_

 _Someone laughed, and Beatrice turned to see a face she'd missed_ _every day he was gone. Her Uncle Rory slinked his way through the crowd and smiled, his arms outstretched._

 _"Uncle Rory!" Beatrice yelled, her face jovial and bright._

 _Chuckling, he scooped the baby_ _up from her arms and returned him to his mother before Rory hefted_ _Beatrice up in his arms. He ruffled her hair and she giggled, burying her face into his neck._

 _"Hello, my sweet Bertie. And there is my radiant, darlin' sister! Vou san vou-mem byen?"_

 _"Mo manje," her mother answered._

 _Rory let out a bellowing laugh, ignoring the look of confusion on his niece's face. He swung her onto his shoulders, her small hands tangled in his red hair._

 _"Will you two speak actual English instead of that Creole shit?"_

 _The room went still_ _as Beatrice's stepfather appeared beside the bed, lifting his new son into his arms. It was strange for Beatrice to see something so small in the arms of something as great as_ _a bear, especially with how_ _gentle her stepfather was being. There was a tenderness in his eyes, a sight she had never witnessed before._

* * *

She had chewed a hole through the collar of her shirt, the fabric damp and stained red. When night had fallen, she decided to finally free herself from the confines of the bedroom, her feet bare and her hands shaking. Wandering through the labyrnthine hallways, she felt like some creature of the night sneaking around a forbidden land, the world silent and swathed in black.

"What the fuck are you doin'?"

Negan broke away from the shadows, his gleaming eyes drawn to her. He approached her and examined the state of her torn shirt as well as the dark circles beneath her eyes.

"Takin' a walk. Thought you wanted me to get outta the room, Negan." She sauntered past him and stepped into the cold air of the night, her arms folded across her chest.

She felt his warmth just seconds before his hot breath kissed her neck, the hairs on her arm prickling.

"I'm so very sorry for what happened." Negan coiled his arms around her stomach, his lips pressed against the skin of her throat.

She quickly turned in his arms and pushed away from him, her eyes burning with something much different than anger. A shadow passed across her face as she stepped closer. The moment her hand touched his chest, he took her into his arms and held her close, their lips some few inches apart. Something stirred within her, something warm and forbidden.

"I want to forget. Just for now," she whispered, her eyes falling shut, "Just for now. Please."

* * *

 _The house became a flurry of activity, her parents constantly moving to please their new child and some people she'd never_ _met going in and out of the house. It was never quiet anymore, and she found herself yearning for a change. She wanted to actually sleep, to enjoy her dreams. Instead, she was forced to watch as everyone slowly forgot her._ _She wandered the crevices of the house and explored cobwebs in every corner, alone in the new world and severely hating the monster in in the crib_ _. She hated him_ _for being born on her birthday and for stealing her mother away. But she couldn't hate him forever._

 _She was in her bedroom, a mess of textbooks and papers scattered around her bare legs. Her closest friend was spinning in the computer chair, laughter bubbling up from inside her, her hair like a waterfall of gold._

 _"What're_ _doin'?" Beatrice asked. She was smiling, the dimples in her cheeks deep._

 _The girl rose from the chair and approached the_ _bed, her cheeks pink and her eyes buzzing with excitement. She climbed onto the bed and shoved away the papers until nothing blocked her from her goal. Her fingers danced up Beatrice's arm_ _as she moved to her knees, staring down at the blushing, wide-eyed girl._

 _"W-what're doin'?" She asked once more._

 _A squeak of surprise fell upon her lips just seconds before their mouths touched. Noses collided as Beatrice grabbed_ _onto her friend's shoulders, their bodies tumbling backwards. The blankets flew up around_ _them, an explosion of pastel colors. The air escaped her lungs as adrenaline overwhelmed her veins_ _, a fire burning in her blood. She hooked her arms around her friend's neck and closed her eyes, savoring the taste of chapstick and pineapple on_ _her lips._

 _"Why are you kissin' her?"_

 _Beatrice and her friend broke apart, the moment shattered by the unexpected intrusion of her younger brother. Tristan stood in the shadow of the door, a blanket tied around his neck and a whisk in hand. She shot up from underneath her friend and raced towards him, dropping to her knees before his small form._

 _"Tris, please don't tell_ _mom and dad, especially dad. They can't know_ _. Okay? Promise?" She was gripping his narrow shoulders, her nose barely brushing his. Her hand shot out, her pinky curled_ _and waiting._

 _Tristan grinned, exposing the noticeable gap in his teeth, and hooked his pinky around her's, forever sealing their promise to each other._

* * *

The bed shifted and dipped as Beatrice woke, turning away from the blinding beams of gold light. Rubbing her face, she glanced at her bed mate and went still, flashes of the previous night going off in her mind.

They had stumbled down the hall, bodies colliding as hands fumbled at loose clothing. There was a distinct taste of liquor lingering on his lips, something she had savored. She recalled the door swinging open, the crash of their contrasting bodies falling onto the matress, the vicious tearing of fabric. His large hands pulled at her hair as she pressed herself against him, desiring the intense warmth radiating from his body.

"Fuck! You feel so fuckin' good in my hands," Negan had said in between heated kisses, "So fuckin' soft."

Whimpering. Moaning. Screaming. Gasping for precious breath.

She was in the bathroom in a matter of seconds, the door shut and locked. Facing the mirror, she peeled back her shirt and examined the scattered bruises dotted across her neck, the handprints coloring her skin. There was a soreness between her legs, a dull pain some parts of her enjoyed feeling. Her scalp throbbed and her nerves flared, yet dread weighed heavily in her stomach.

Hearing the bed shift and groan, Beatrice held her breath as Negan rose from his deep sleep. She listened to the sounds of his heavy footfalls, his breath low and quiet. Closing her eyes, she nervously drummed her fingers against her thighs and counted. A sudden knock made her jump, and she bit down on her tongue.

"Beatrice? You in there?" He asked through the door.

"Uhm, yeah. Just...just, uhm, handlin' some...yeah. You don't wanna come in here, Negan. But I'll see you later?"

There was absolute silence after that. She listened and waited, praying to anyone that he would leave. Then he started to laugh, a raucous sound that made her cringe. She slumped in relief and pushed back her hair, hearing the movement of fabric and the stomping of feet as Negan finally left the room.

Beatrice faced the mirror once more and willed herself to breathe normally. She opened her eyes and nearly jumped out of her skin. Her brother was standing behind her, his skin mottled and torn apart. Blood dripped from his open wounds, filling the room with a gut wrenching stench of death. The image morphed into him some few years ago, his brown skin bruised from his father's beating. His bottom lip quivered as he reached for her, his mouth opening but no sound came out. She felt the presence of his touch, but his skin never touched her's. She blinked, and the image faded, lingering in her mind.

"Oh, God. What have I done?"

* * *

 _It happened on their shared birthday. Beatrice was seated on a bench, her brother beside her. They were watching as their cousins danced across the playground, laughter cutting through the tension_ _in the air. There was something bad in the atmosphere, something the siblings felt running through their bones. They were absolutely paranoid as their eyes darted from face to face, struggling to find the reason._

 _"Hey, kids! Shouldn't you_ _two be enjoyin' your birthdays?" Uncle Rory approached with_ _a bounce in his step, but there was an uneasiness to him. Sweat glistened around his temples, and his eyes refused_ _to meet their's_

 _"Eh, parties are lame anyways. Besides, we feel like somethin' bad is 'bout to happen," Tristan said, keeping his voice down in fear of anyone else hearing it._

 _They heard the car pull up, and they turned to see their parents stepping out, their grandparents following behind. Mrs. Hawkins had her head down, her mother's hand pressed against her back. Mr. Hawkins was staring at them, his eyes dark and swirling with fury._

 _"Oh, shit. Dad does not look happy," Tristan whispered._

 _Then the walls came crashing down._

 _Mr. Hawkins stormed across the field, shoving through family to reach his_ _son and his stepdaughter. Without warning, he grabbed Beatrice's shirt and threw her into a wooden pole, his face inches from her's._

 _"You fuckin' fag! What the_ _fuck did you do to my son? I knew I shouldn't have_ _let you around him! Not after I found_ _out what you are! If you were my daughter, my blood relation, I would_ _have you fuckin' committed tonight! I should have you fuckin' killed for what you did to him_ _!"_

 _Spit hit Beatrice's skin, making her turn away_ _from him. Her heart was pounding against her_ _chest, fear seeping into her veins. She could feel the knives of his nails cutting across her biceps, drawing thin lines of_ _blood. He released her and turned on his son, the thirteen year_ _old boy quivering in fright_

 _"You let her change you into one of them! You let her turn you into a fucking faggot!" Mr. Hawkins growled as he stalked towards his son, shoulders raised and fists clenched._

 _The first hit slammed into Tristan's eye, throwing him to the ground. People began_ _to scream, but no one tried to stop him. The second knocked_ _the breath out of his lungs. A swift kick bounced off his side, cracking his rib._

 _"You deserve to burn for even thinkin' of lookin' at another man in that way!" He yelled._

 _Mrs. Hawkins was weeping against her mother, turned away from the violence. Beatrice looked until her_ _eyes focused on her uncle standing by another pole, his eyes wide and his face dripping with sweat_ _. That's when_ _she realized the truth. That's when_ _she knew how her stepfather found out._

 _She barely had time to react before red and blue lights splashed across the field, and policemen rushed in_ _, grabbing her stepfather and lifting him_ _off of Tristan. He was sobbing, his body curled into a fetal position. Blood stained his hair and clothes, and his face was a mosaic of bruises. He had his hands clenched as if preparing to fight back. Beatrice knelt_ _beside him and cradled Tristan, her body shaking with anger._

 _"Someone call_ _the fucking hospital and get an ambulance over here," Beatrice yelled, watching as her grandfather quickly took out his phone and_ _dialed the number that would save her brother's life. She saw the police drag her stepfather into the back of a car, his hands cuffed behind his back. He was still screaming, his face turning an ugly shade of red. Their eyes met for just a moment, but she wouldn't forget the pure disgust in his eyes._

 _She waited until her brother was in the back of an ambulance before she approached her uncle. He turned to_ _look at her, his mouth open and ready to apologize, but she quickly silenced him with a punch to the face. He stumbled back, rubbing at the split in his lip._

 _"You fucking promised you wouldn't tell_ _anyone! Especially not_ him _! You know how he feels about gay people! And you fucking told him anyway!"_

 _"I didn't tell_ _him, Beatrice! I accidentally told your mom one night after drinkin' a little too much_ _," he said._

 _"But you should've known she tells_ _him everything, especially when it_ _concerns his son! You have no fuckin' excuse for this, Rory! Nothing! I don't give_ _a damn how drunk you were! Because of you, Tristan is now in the hospital!"_

 _He looked at Beatrice, his eyes glistening with tears._

 _"If I ever_ _see your face again, I will personally make_ _sure you are dead in a fuckin' ditch somewhere, Rory. Don'tcome_ _anywhere near me or my brother, understand? I don'tgive_ _a fuck what it would do to you or mom because it's just_ _as much as your fault as_ _it is her's!" Beatrice gave him one final look before she walked off, jogging over to where she parked her car._

 _Rory watched as_ _his last bit of family drove away, his heart aching and his eyes burning with tears. His world crumbled around him, closing him in a darkness he would never escape from._

 _"Goddamn. That was fucked up, man. Real fucked up." Rory turned on his heels as a man stepped towards_ _him, his lips curled into a grimace. The man was much taller than him, a giant wrapped in a white shirt and slicked back hair, his dark eyes gleaming. "What'syour_ _name?"_

 _Rory chewed on his lip and glanced at the parking lot, wishing he could take back everything._

 _"Rory."_

 _"Rory. Sounds like some suburban shit," the man said._

 _Rory glared at him and shook his head, contemplating whether or not he should bash this asshole's brains in with the baseball bat he saw leaning against a nearby tree._

 _"Anyways, hi. Pleasure to fuckin' meet you. I'm Negan_ _."_

* * *

 **Yeah. Rory met Negan before the world went to shit. And that was a whole lot of drama that went down.**

 **Translations:**

 _Vou san vou-mem byen?: How do you feel?_

 _Mo manje: I'm hungry_

 **Any constructive criticism is welcome as well as any questions. Thank you for reading and reviewing. You all are really awesome! Thank you.**


	7. Chapter 7: Trouble in the Family

**Sorry for the delay. I had the worst case of writer's block the last week, but I managed to finish this chapter. I'm glad everyone is enjoying this and I greatly welcome your reviews and input.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the Walking Dead. I just own the characters not in the show or comics.**

* * *

 _She was sitting on the front porch, blood casually dripping from the split skin around her knuckles. A cigarette tucked between her pink lips, she carefully examined the state of the yard before her. The lawn mower had gone to shit weeks before the world had done the same, leaving ankle-high blades of green grass and an overwhelming cluster of weeds and wildflowers. She flicked the cigarette and watched it fly through the humid Louisiana air, landing in a puddle some few feet away. Reds and yellows and oranges splashed across her face as flames licked at the grass, scorching the Earth._

 _Her eyes darted towards the shadows fastly shuffling along the fence, pressing against the metal links. Their arms reached for her, their groans permeating the atmosphere._

 _"Motherfuckers," she growled as she rose to her feet, her boots sinking into the damp ground._

 _The fence began to dip and bend as the weight of the Walkers became too much for it. She turned away from the burning yard and stepped inside her house, hands shoved into her pockets. The air was warm, and she peeled off her coat, letting the useless fabric fall to the ground. She turned a corner and grinned, eying the unconscious man tied to a wooden pillar. He shifted in his sleep, drool dripping from his lips._

 _"Looks like it's feedin' time," she whispered._

 _So, with a strength matched by no other, she undid the ropes and hefted the tall man over her shoulder, carrying him back outside. He began to open his eyes just as she threw him down, eyes empty of sympathy. The fence_ _gave out, and the Walkers lumbered towards the man, ignoring the other piece of flesh standing by the porch._

 _Watching as they feasted on her husband, Ainslie Hawkins lit another cigarette, flicking her lighter at the stream of oil leading away from the puddle. The Walkers and her husband went up in flames, the crackling of the fire and the groans and screams from within fading into the night sky._

* * *

He limped along the highway, a hand flattened against the wound in his side. The intense heat beat down on his back as he lumbered towards shelter, praying his people hadn't left him behind. There were cars all around him, the debris scattered across the pavement. His breath hitched and he came to a stop, his eyes on the river beneath him.

He could jump. He had enough strength to do so, yet he needed to find her. He needed to know she was safe from the new world.

"Don't move, and I won't have to shoot you, asshole," a deep voice snarled.

Metal slid across his throat and stopped just beneath his chin, teasing his warm skin. A piece of debris was shoved to the side as his attacker circled around to face him, their face covered almost entirely with a scarf.

"I'm not here to hurt you, but I will if I have to. So, keep still while my friend searches you."

Hands groped at his clothes, frantically searching for anything that could harm them. They removed his knives, his guns, and they tossed them into the back of a vehicle. He was jerked around, and the pain in his side flared up. Black dots flecked his vision, and he began to sway, the world around him going dark. He tumbled to the ground, landing hard on the pavement. Faces hovered over him, boys barely into their adult years. His attacker had removed his scarf, revealing a sharp and slender face and brown eyes that meticulously examined him. Taller and more slender, the other boy had a strange familiarity to his face. The freckles across his cheeks, the brown hue of his skin.

"Y-You look like her," he whispered, the boy's face transforming into a woman he had known as a young man, a man in love with a woman he had known from childhood.

"You know this guy?" The dark haired boy asked, turning to look at his companion. There was something between the two of them, a spark of intensity, and he felt strange lying there as they shared a long look.

"No...sort of. He looks familiar, but I don't know his name. I think my mom mentioned him a few times." The boy stood and swept a hand through his auburn hair, fiddling with his shirt.

"Hey! Get him in the car! And make sure you patch him up before he passes out!" The boy yelled before slinging his arm around his companion's shoulder, leading him away from the man on the ground. He watched them, a swell of something warm in his heart. He knew the look they shared; he had exchanged that same look with her.

"We'll find out who he is, Tristan. Promise," the boy said as they disappeared around the side of the car.

* * *

 _There were photo albums scattered around her legs, photographs of her children staring back at her. In almost all of them, her son and daughter were grinning or laughing, their faces bright and jovial. However, she was staring at a wrinkled and faded picture in her hands. It captured a boy and a girl hanging from the branch of a willow tree, their bodies upside down. Long, ink black hair flowed towards the ground, and their faces were_ _smeared with dirt and paint. Flipping over the picture, she ran her fingertip along the pale handwriting, reading the names of the children._

 _'Maddox and Ainslie, 19...'_

 _The numbers were far too faded to make out, but she knew the day as if she had just experienced it. She had loved that boy, loved him for too long yet not long enough._

 _An unexpected anger flared up from deep inside of her, and she flung the photographs_ _away, yearning for a release. She was on her feet and outside before she could realize where she was going. She walked and walked until her legs throbbed and her body ached. Then she continued walking. Her mind was empty as she tore through the town, ignoring the hordes of Walker as they ravenously feasted on the bodies of her neighbors and friends and the people she had let watch her children._

 _Oh, her children. They had left her alone in this new world, forced to withstand the abuse of her late husband. She missed them terribly, missed the sounds of their laughter and screams and cries when they were in pain._

 _"Ainslie! What the hell are you doing?"_

* * *

He was in a room he did not know. The space was in many shades blue and yellow, the strange disco lights splashing across the walls. Low music reverberated throughout the building as if he had somehow ended up in a club. There were many others in the room with him, their eyes dazed and glassy. A haze darkened the space, and he felt his lungs overflow with a familiar stench.

"Heeey! You're awake!" One of the people yelled before slamming their fist against the wall, setting off a shrill alarm.

Covering his ears, he leaned down and closed his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat. A beam of light stretched towards him, and he looked to see the same dark haired boy standing in the shadow of the hall.

"Good to see ya awake, man. My boyfr...Tristan seemed a little concerned about you," he said as he slithered inside, his body twisting and turning like a snake. When they were in front of each other, he realized the boy was quite taller than him, his dark eyes shining. "What's your name?"

"My...my name...Maddox. My name is Maddox," he answered, "And I'm looking for a woman named Ainslie."

* * *

 _Rory was dragging her away from the wreckage of the town, his nails digging into her skin. Stumbling along, she felt a sudden urge to light herself a cigarette and press it to his eye. Ainslie tore free from her brother as a million thoughts passed through her mind. She despised him, but not as much as she despised herself. Because of her, Tristan had ended up in the hospital. Because of her, they were gone._

 _"Ainslie! You need to come with me!" Rory yelled._

 _"And why should I? I'm perfectly fine without you, asshole!"_

 _He went still, his eyes focused on her's. There was a second where neither of them spoke, their attention unwavering. Ainslie chewed on her lip as she remembered a time when they were inseparable, refusing to_ _ever break the strong bond they carried. She remembered a time when everything wasn't so complicated._

 _"Because I'm still your brother, Ains. I still care about you. We're family, sis, and nothin' is going to change that."_

 _Her heart skipped a beat, but alarms were blaring in her mind. She didn't dare go near him for fear of what she would_ _do to her brother. Trembling, she picked at the skin around her nails and closed her eyes, hands reaching for the gun at her hip. She saw the noticeable change in his eyes seconds before she fired the first shot. It grazed his ear, a fire kissing his skin, and lodged in the brain of an approaching Walker. The undead creature collapsed at Rory's feet, releasing a slow and steady groan._

 _Ainslie turned away from her brother and began to walk forward, ignoring the flares of pain in her body._

 _"Ainslie, I'm not lettin' you leave like that! I'm not goin' to let you just walk away!"_

 _"Well, you better get over it, Rory. Because_ _I'm walkin' away. Away from you. Away from Caleb. Away from all of this shit. I'm tired of lettin' other people tell me what to do and what not to do. I'm tired of havin' people thinkin' they know what's best for me! I'm goin' to go find my children and we're gettin' the hell away from this shit," she said, her blood humming with adrenaline._

 _Facing the new world, Ainslie Hawkins walked off with an unfamiliar strength flowing through her veins. She walked off, abandoning the life she yearned to forget._

* * *

Maddox fiddled with the empty chain around his neck as his eyes followed the shape of Rufio Castillo. He was young, barely a boy, yet he carried himself like a man. Shoulders back and head high, he sauntered down an endless hallway of turns that went nowhere and corners that seemed to drop off into nothing. It felt odd to Maddox having a boy lead him around, but he didn't dare question it.

They passed by clusters of strange people, each of them mumbling their secrets to one another. He caught snippets of conversations, but the words made little sense to him.

"Where do you come from, Maddox?" Rufio asked as they turned a corner and continued walking, the shadows dancing all around.

"Uhm, Louisiana. Born and raised there."

The boy let out a short laugh and nodded.

"Got anyone else with you?"

There was a pause, a second in which Maddox considered lying. But why? His people weren't really his to begin with. They only allowed him in because they needed his brutality, his immense strength. They didn't care about his safety as long as he protected them from the Walkers.

"No. No one. Just me."

"Well, I'd say some cliché shit about what's mine if yours and all that, but it ain't true. I don't trust men just walkin' around. Never have. For all I know, you've got somethin' on you that tells your people where you are," Rufio said, eyes trained on the path ahead.

"I don't have any people. Not any that cared about me. So, it wouldn't matter. Besides, I'm just lookin' for someone."

Nodding, Rufio shoved open a door and stepped to the side, motioning for Maddox to step inside. He reluctantly compiled, the room consumed with a vicious stench. The same boy from before was seated on the edge of a rickety desk, playing with a set of cards. His head was down until Rufio made a slight noise, shattering his focus.

The boy stood and approached Maddox, doing a quick once over before crossing his arms. He was more bone than muscle, his long limbs slender and awkward. Intense blue eyes stared at him, watching him for any show of deception. Maddox shifted uncomfortably in his stance as he saw her face again. Though there were many differences, he knew that intensity that only she had.

"I'm just lookin' for someone. I'm not here to cause any trouble," Maddox said.

"I know you're not," Tristan said, "Y'know, my mom only mentioned you once. She said some pretty shitty things about the way you're relationship ended. Of course, I'm not goin' to judge. I don't know anythin' 'bout you. Well...except for one thing."

Out of the corner of his eye, Maddox noticed Rufio giving Tristan a strange look. He had cocked his head, eyebrows raised in a silent question.

"And what do you know about me?"

Tristan slid off the desk and approached, pulling out a single photograph. It was crinkled from being in his pocket, the edges frayed and burnt slightly. But he could still make out the image.

There was a man, younger than Maddox by many years, standing in the comfort of a living room. In his arms was a child, a girl barely old enough to walk. They were grinning, their faces nearly mirror images of one another. Even down to the slight quirk in their smiles.

Maddox recognized that living room. He knew who was taking the picture and why he was holding that child in such a loving way.

"They're both alive, Maddox. And I'm pretty sure Beatrice would like to know who her dad is."

* * *

 **And there we go. I welcome any constructive criticism you may have. Thank you for reading!**


	8. Chapter 8: Feeding the Monster

**Another chapter. It's on the shorter side, but it is also quite sensitive in terms of its subject.**

 **Warning: this chapter does focus heavily on suicide and depression.**

 **Also, the bold parts are supposed to be his inner voice.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the Walking Dead. I only own the characters not in the show or comics.**

* * *

Drip. Drip. Drip.

 _"Well, you better get over it, Rory!"_

Drip...drip...drip...

 _"Because I'm walkin' away!"_

Dri...drip...drip...

 _"Away from you!"_

Drip.

He woke, eyes straining to pierce the suffocating darkness. The intense chill of the room slithered along his skin and prickled the flesh it touched, the few shreds of fabric on his body doing little to hinder it's progress. His breath was a mist rising from his cracked lips, dissipating in the blackness all around him. Hands grabbed at the protruding stones in the wall, lifting him up on weak legs. His knees knocked together as he shuffled closer to the opening in his prison. The bars were rusted and flaking off, but he knew he wouldn't be able to break them, especially with his lack of strength.

"Really, Rory? Just gonna give up?"

The turn he made took an eternity as a woman stepped into view. A woman he'd known for far too long. She was partially in the shadows, but he could see the green in her hazel eyes, the dark hair braided over her shoulder. The woman had aged considerably since he last saw her, no longer the sister he idolized as a child.

"You're not real," Rory whispered.

"Of course I'm not real, Rory. I'm just some fucked up figment of your imagination," Ainslie said, her voice arriving on another level of existence. She approached him, and the shadows peeled away her face, leaving behind dangling flesh and sharp bones, the muscles torn and half gone. She grinned, and he saw the teeth in her mouth crumble into dust.

Ainslie wore a dress of yellow fabric, the hem frayed and ripped. Faded flowers were smeared across her front, mingling with the dirt and blood staining her dress. Her feet were bare, the toenails cracked and black and the skin split. She was staring at him, and the greens of her eyes swirled like spirals. Wisps of hair broke away from her scalp and scattered around her feet like spider webs.

"Go away, Ainslie!" He yelled, tears leaking from his eyes.

"But I thought you wanted me here. We're family, remember?" She teased, and her eyes sparked.

She charged at him, the impact forcing him to the concrete ground. His head smacked into the wall, and he felt his world turn black. Blinking at the woman who was not his sister, Rory groaned and closed his eyes, yearning for a dreamless sleep.

His heart was aching for release. Balancing on the edge, he slowly approached the end, his eyes drawn to the empty streets below. There were no cars anymore, not after the outbreak, and he yearned to see on living person roaming the streets. One goddamn person. Not the monsters that tore apart his friends and family.

 _His toes curled around the edge, and he leaned forward, the sharp wind snapping at his face. The chill in the air nipped at his cheeks, leaving them pink. The wind clawed into his clothes, plastering them to his skin._

 _He began to tip forward, wondering how painful the impact would be..._

 _A hand seized his arm, and he was thrown to the concrete, the blazing eyes of an old friend staring down at him._

 _"So, this is how you're goin' to do it? After everything? What about our promise?" Maddox asked, his eyes brimming with tears. He was trembling, and Rory noticed the speckles of blood dried around his lips._

 _"How...where did you come from?" This had to be a dream. Maddox had disappeared from his life years ago. There was no way the same man stood before him now._

 _"That doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm not going to let you jump off this roof until you explain to me why the hell you'd want to do it!"_

 _There was a pause. Rory licked his lips and glanced at the streets below. A few Walkers shuffled around, their bodies decomposing even more._

 _"They all hate me, Maddox. Every single one of them despise me. I...how can I live knowing my sister hates me? My niece? I can't. They all want me dead because of the things I've done," he said, his voice fading to a whisper of noise, "What's wrong with you, Maddox?"_

 _Startled, he vigorously rubbed at the blood around his lips until his skin was clean. Maddox nervously chewed on his shirt before looking at Rory once more, avoiding the question by simply shrugging his shoulders._

 _"You're not going to jump, Rory."_

There was a guard outside his prison. They were giggling at nothing, the stench of alcohol radiating off his body. Rory crawled into the corner and closed his eyes, turned away from the child standing in the corner.

She was small, her grey eyes big and her thumb shoved in her mouth. She shuffled closer and titled her head, wisps of black hair dancing across her face. The shirt she wore was one of his, one he'd given to her for when she stayed the night at his house. And she was sobbing, her shoulders shaking.

"Rory? I...I'm scared. Where am I?" Her voice cracked, and he watched as her expression changed. She rose higher until she was standing over him, the gown torn and hanging on thin threads. Half her face was blown out, leaving a split skull and a steady flow of blood. "Yeah, Rory. Where am I? Why have you brought me here? It's your fault. Of course its your fault."

He curled inwards, his knees tucked against his slender chest.

"Go...go away. Please. Just leave me alone." He closed his eyes and shook, pain overwhelming his veins.

"Why? I thought you wanted us here? Oh, wait. We hate you, don't we?" Beatrice turned and glanced at the boy standing beside her, much younger than Rory recalled.

Tristan stared at him, his face an empty space of brown skin. His eyes were gone, leaving bruised holes and blood stained where his mouth would be.

"Why did you do it, Rory? Why did you tell her?"

"I...I don't know. I didn't mean to!"

"Oi!" The guard yelled, slamming the butt of his gun against the wall, "Shut the fuck up!"

Hands caressed his face, brushing away the strands of hair that stuck to his forehead.

"Hey, what the hell ar-ACK!" The guard went silent, his body falling to the ground with a loud thump.

There was a sudden explosion of sound. Voices rippled throughout the space, filling his head with far too much noise. He rolled onto his side, and he glanced at the bars, watching as the form of a woman stepped into view.

Beatrice stood resolute outside his prison, blood dripping down her face. There was a baseball bat hanging from her hand, flesh twisted throughout the barbed wire.

 _There were two times in which Rory wished God had taken him away from the life he was forced to endure. He was barely twelve when the first incident occurred. Alone at his childhood house, he roamed each and every corner, searching for some sign of adventure. He remembered wishing for a house full of secret doors and rooms that carried mysteries beyond his comprehension._

 _But his house wasn't that kind of house. He was forced the sit and stare at a wall, the house phone carefully positioned beside his feet. Each and every door was locked; the windows were practically glued shut, leaving no room for escape._

 _Thoughts were swirling around in his mind, thoughts he couldn't quite understand. They weren't exactly dark, but there was something to them. Something sad and lonesome._

 _Rory rose from the floor and slowly crept through the house, the phone abandoned on the floor. His feet were bare, the floorboards like ice against his skin. Crawling up into the attic, he hefted his small body onto the loose rafters and hung his legs toward the ground below. A chill swept along the lines of his body, yet he felt none of it._

 **What's wrong, Rory? All alone while you're parents are out with your sister. They don't care about you.**

 _"That's not true. They only left to make sure she's safe."_

 **You sure? They haven't even called. They said they would, and they haven't. They don't care about you. They only care about Ainslie. Trust me. I know.**

 _"No. Th...that's not true. I don't believe you. They love me." Tears dripped off his chin and flew to the world beneath him. The world that felt so far away._

 **That's right. Cry. That's all you can do. Because you're alone in this house, Rory.**

 _The rafters broke away underneath him, splinters of wood scattered like spikes across the floor. His body collided with the floor, pain destroying every nerve beneath his skin. He wasn't sure how long he'd stayed there with his arms out and his face wet with years. He could feel his soul peeling away, the strings tying it to him snapping like strings._

 _The next time he opened his eyes, it was in a hospital bed, machines attached to his every inch. He remembered praying to God that this life would end soon, that he wouldn't have to rely on machines to help him breathe. He had prayed for many hours, hoping someone would listen to him._

He hadn't felt the same way until now, standing behind the bars while his niece stared at him with her grey eyes, the eyes of a man he had once been close friends with. The baseball looked off in her grasp as she slinked closer, hatred brewing in her face.

"Thought you were dead, Rory. Guess I was wrong. Of course, you probably would've been better off if Negan had bashed your fuckin' brains in," she growled.

"Please. I need to get out of here." Rory was trembling behind the bars. Hands pressed to his sides, he shuffled closer and licked his lips.

Beatrice swung the bat over her shoulder, her grip tight. The skin of her fingers burned white as she pushed back her hair. There was something vicious about her expression, a look he'd only seen once.

"This isn't you, Bea-Bea. You know me. I shouldn't have done what I did. But I love you. I love Tristan. I would never do anything to purposefully harm either of you. What I did...it was the dumbest thing I have ever done in my life, and I regret it every damn day. Tristan didn't deserve that, and I know you despise me. But don't think I don't love you kids. I adored you the moment I held you in the hospital room. You and Tristan both."

Beatrice glanced over her shoulder as voices chimed in from outside.

"Please, Beatrice. I...you're my family. I love you, Bea-Bea. So very much. You have to get me outta here. Please!"

She snatched the keys from the belt of the dead Savior and faced her uncle, her face softening. Beatrice slowly crumbled and shifted into the girl he once knew, her eyes warm.

Then she flung the keys away from his cell.

"No. Not going to happen. You can just rot here, Rory. You are not my family. You will never be my family. So, go to hell, you asshole."

He listened as she walked away, the shadow of his last hope fading into nothing. The keys were on the other side of space, gleaming beneath the faint flickers of light. His body gave out, and he slammed into the ground, his mind empty once more.

 **Looks like I was right, Rory. No one cares about you. You're going to die here. All alone.**

* * *

 **So, before anyone freaks out. The reason I made Beatrice do that is because I don't believe she would forgive him that easily. She still hates him, and I just couldn't see her letting him go free and alive. She wants him to suffer the same way her brother did.**

 **I welcome any constructive criticism you may have. And thank you for reading! The next one should be much longer.**


	9. Chapter 9: Promises

**Another chapter! More Tristan and Maddox and Rufio in this as well! Also, I saw Captain America: Civil War the other day, and I'm already planning a story for it. So if you have any suggestions, go ahead and message me.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing from the Walking Dead. I only own the characters not in the show or comics.**

* * *

It was the moment she'd dreamt of. Standing before her uncle, his life held so tight in her hands. The keys were dangling from her fingertips, twinkling like stars. Lucille felt unfamiliar in her grip, a foreign object her body wished to rid itself of. It was a parasite crawling across her skin, infecting her strength.

But there he was, his red hair limp and glued to his forehead and his skin pale. Vomit smeared across his clothes, he was the poster child of a prisoner. Rory had post the essence of himself, his light dimming to something grey and low. He stood on weak legs, the veins beneath his olive skin prominent as if someone had painted them on. Rory was no longer the man she knew, and Beatrice realized that fact made it so much easier to do what she had planned the second she saw him.

"Please, Beatrice. I...you're my family. I love you, Bea-Bea. So very much. You have to get me outta here. Please!" There was a crack in his voice, a sharp and noticeable waver. He was quivering, tears tumbling down his hollow cheeks. Clutching the rusted bars, he pressed his face against the metal, his eyes red and puffy.

She felt the keys fall away from her grip and clattered against the wall, a sound so loud it made her flinch. Something dark crawled into her soul and made its home there, consuming her like a sickness she didn't want to lose.

The hope in Rory's eyes diminished as he watched his life disappear. He crumbled and lowered his head.

"No. Not going to happen. You can just rot here, Rory. You are not my family. You will never be my family. So, go to hell, you asshole."

She whipped around, a chill creeping down her spine like a spindly hand running over her skin. Swallowing her building guilt, Beatrice left the confines of the space, Rory's eyes burning into her back as she walked away.

The child that loved her uncle stood in the corner of her mind, weeping as Rory fell apart and slammed into the ground. As she stepped out of the prison, Beatrice felt something take a hold of her heart, and she covered her mouth as the last of the girl she was perished.

* * *

 _Yelling rippled throughout the home, shattering the peace they once built. Their television had crapped out some few weeks ago, and she found herself unable to block out the screaming, the vicious words flung between her parents. She was alone on the couch, the blanket bunched around her body. Her father, her actual father, swore and went silent, his voice just barely above a whisper; her mother giggled, and the tension in the space faded away. Something had crashed and fallen to the tiles, shattering across the floor._

 _Beatrice rose from the couch and shuffled towards the kitchen, catching a brief glimpse of her parents clinging to each other, partially bent over laughing at the sauce that had splattered all over them. During their fight, the sauce had boiled over, resulting in it painting the wall red. Tilting her head, she managed a quick smile just moments before they both drew her in, crushing her against their bodies. Laughing, she hooked her arms around their necks amd hung like a monkey from them._

 _"Go grab the bags, Maddox. The ones we stashed in the closet," her mother said, "We're going on a road trip!"_

 _He bolted upstairs, clumsy and slow, and Beatrice happily drummed her fingers against her thighs, her plastic mood rings clinking together. She heard the faint giggle of her mother and heavy footsteps of her father. The stairs wailed as Maddox returned, three backpacks dangling from his muscular arms. Her mother snagged one as her father carefully helped Beatrice into the backpack, ruffling the mess of dark hair around her face. He hefted her onto his shoulders and carried her outside, her mother following behind. She felt her mother grab her hand, the skin rough from years of house work and building._

 _The door creaked and swung open, and Beatrice grinned at the cheesy 'Love You More' sign above the door as the three of them swept outside, the keys hooked around her father's fingers._

* * *

Beatrice sprinted through the shadows, her hands free of the parasite that was the baseball bat. Her heart was hammering against her breasts as a million strange and rampaging thoughts scurried through her mind. She'd barely made it to the escape when hands grabbed at her arms, throwing her to the concrete. Crying out, Beatrice forced her eyes shut and crawled away from her assailant.

The Saviors circled her like hyenas, and their leader crept through, his eyes burning with a newfound anger. Lucille was positioned over his shoulder, a familiar sight she'd struggled to destroy from her mind.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Negan demanded. Despite his obvious anger, there was a hint of amusement blazing in his stare.

"Gettin' the hell away from you and your band of fuck ups!" She yelled, her palms flat against the ground.

Smirking, he nodded his head at the other men, and they quickly lifted her from the ground, carrying her away from her only chance at escape.

And it was then she realized she would never escape this place called Hell.

* * *

 _Early July, Maddox stopped picking her up from her uncle's house. It just happened, and she had wandered home, not entirely sure of the way there. Her feet ached when she stumbled inside, the cool air a harsh welcome. Looking up, she felt rather than saw the evidence that he had left. The air was dense, nearly choking her, and the house no longer carried a sense of comfort._

 _Her father was gone, and she didn't know why._

 _The telephone released a shrill cry, and she quickly grabbed it from its holder, forgetting the rules her mother had placed some time ago._

 _"Hello?" She asked._

 _"Bea-Bea, where are you?" Uncle Rory was shaking, his voice flooded with concern._

 _"I left because dad didn't pick me up. He always picks me up. Where is dad?"_

 _There was a pause, a brief time in which the twist in her stomach punched her hard. She didn't want to know why or how; she wanted to know where he was so she could find him._

 _"Bea-Bea, he's gone. And...and he isn't coming back," he answered._

 _Beatrice could hear him getting into a car, the engine revving up in the background. She knew he was headed here, but a part of her wanted to leave again. To leave and find her father._

 _The front door swung open, and she turned as her mother swept into the room, taking Beatrice up and away from the phone. Her mother held her tight, cradling her like a baby, as tears dripped down her cheeks. The phone had fallen and hit the ground, Rory's voice barely audible from so far away._

 _"It's going to be alright, baby. I...I promise. We'll get through this together. We always do. I'll take care of you."_

 _Beatrice peeled away from her mom to look into her hazel eyes._

 _"I know, momma. I promise I'll take care of you, too."_

* * *

Trembling, Tristan picked at the skin around his thumb, his eyes closed. He was carefully breathing through his nose, but his heart was rapidly beating against his chest. Sweat dripped down from his temples and splashed onto his pants, but he felt the heat only worsen.

"You alright, Tristan?"

He startled and turned, facing Rufio. He had managed a quick shower with what little water they had, and he'd abandoned his shirt, cold water running down the front of his toned chest. Flinging a towel over his shoulder, Rufio approached Tristan, his dark eyes shining.

"Y...yeah. I'm good."

Rufio smirked and tilted his head, and wet strands of black hair tickled his cheeks. He slithered closer, his body turning and twisting like a whisper of smoke. Reaching out, he brushed his large hand through Tristan's hair, tucking the messy curls behind his ear. Heat warmed Tristan's cheek, and he glanced down at his hands, his ears burning red.

"You're thinking about your sister. I know you miss her, but I promise we'll find her. Her and your uncle," Rufio said.

Tristan shifted and slid off the desk, facing Rufio. Crossing his arms, he leaned back and smiled, staring up at his savior and closest friend. His heart stuttered at the sight of his handsome face, a thousand tiny thoughts blurring around in his mind.

"Sir! Visitors from Alexandria!"

Rufio pulled away from Tristan and stalked outside the room, Tristan stumbling behind him. His mind was a mess of emotions, yet he was aware of the unfamiliar faces filling the entrance of their home.

Their leader shoved by the survivors, a wicked gun held tight in his grip. He was much older than either of them, his jaw lined by a cruel beard woven through with grey. Sweat and dirt dampened his shirt, the fabric stuck tight to his skin. Narrowing his eyes, the leader clenched his fists and scrutinized each of them.

"Really? You're just a bunch of damn kids," the man grumbled.

Rufio snarled and crossed his arms, towering above the leader. The amusement had left his eyes, replaced with a vicious glare.

"And who the fuck are you?" Rufio asked, clearly not amused by the antics of their visitors. He glanced at the crowd behind the leader, their faces smeared and bruised. His eyes lingered on the swollen belly of a woman standing closest to the door, her dirty hand cradling the bump. The leader cleared his throat, and Rufio returned his gaze to the man before him.

"My name's Rick. And we need help."

* * *

 _The school parking lot had emptied out, leaving Beatrice to linger alone by the school steps. A backpack was situated by her feet, each of its zippers on opposite sides of the pockets. Glancing at the street, she sighed and lowered her head, her eyes closed. She shouldn't be shocked, especially since her mom was so far up her stepfather's ass. Caleb had consumed their lives, completely changing the atmosphere of the house._

 _With a shake of her head, she scooped up her backpack and began to wander, her feet already throbbing from the intense workout in gym class. Her eyes followed those she passed, taking note of how golden each of the families seemed. How bright._

 _Her house slithered into view, and she frowned at the state of the gardens her mother had once cherished. The flowers had been removed, and the yard was trimmed as if taken from a magazine. Caleb's car was in the driveway, but there was another she did not recognize._

 _The door swung open, a sign she did not welcome as it meant her stepfather was in a hurry to get inside. Her heart fluttered just seconds before she noticed the man sitting on her couch, his face partially shadowed by a baseball cap._

 _Oh, god._

 _Maddox was watching her, his face bright and suddenly joyful. Rising from the couch, he crossed the space and took her into his arms, swaying slightly. He smelled just as he had all those years ago, but there was something else. A sharp, metallic smell that invaded her nostrils._

 _There was blood. Everywhere. The fabric of his shirt was damp with it, his hand instinctively going to his side._

 _"I...I need help, Bea-Bea. But you're mom can't know. No one can know."_

* * *

"You've really tested my fuckin' patience, Beatrice. I've protected you, I've fucking fed you, and you go and hurt me like this!" Negan growled as he slammed the bedroom door shut, his eyes ablaze with a wicked fury. He turned to face her, Lucille extending from his hand. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with you?"

"Let me go?! That'd make your life a lot fucking easier!" Beatrice yelled back.

He smirked and approached her, his body a mass of intimidation. Her breath hitched as he shoved her onto the bed, reaching for the drawer by the matress. She barely had time to react before she felt the metal encircle her wrist, trapping her to headboard. Glancing back, she saw that her fate was confirmed by the attachment of a handcuff.

"Now, stay here and fuckin' think about what the fuck you've done! Daddy's gotta go and handle his shit."

Negan was long gone before she could respond, her body writhing and squirming. The metal cut into her skin, but the pain didn't come. She was empty of feeling, empty of understanding. After some time, she surrendered and sunk down into the sheets, her breathing heavy and quiet.

She was going to rip that man's dick off before she got away from here. She was going to make him swallow it as she walked away.

* * *

 **Yeah. It's getting intense. Thank you all for being with me and for reviewing. I always welcome your suggestions and criticism.**


	10. Chapter 10: UPDATE

So, it may take some time for another chapter to come up for my Walking Dead story.

A lot of things are going on in the next few weeks. I'm graduating this Saturday, and my girlfriend and I are moving into our apartment soon. We'll be spending a lot of time there, and I don't believe there is WIFI there, so it may take some for the next few chapters to be uploaded.

I apologize for the hiatus, but it's going to be a little busy the next . Hopefully, after everything settles, I can continue writing the story. Thank you for your patience and your reviews.


	11. Chapter 11: Losing Strength

**Finally! A new chapter! It's been a while. And these last few weeks have been stressful. But I'm glad I got this out. Thank you for your patience. I apologize for any misspellings.**

 **Warning: Suicide**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the Walking Dead. The only things I own are what's not in the show or comics.**

* * *

She slowly turned onto her stomach as the intense heat seeped into her pores. The highway groaned as if her slight movements would cause it to collapse at any given moment. A buildup a cars hindered anyone's ability to drive across, but it also provided her with a quick shelter for the night. In between sleep and reality, she could still see the glimmer of barbed wire as it struck the unsuspecting victim, splattering their brains out all over the concrete, and the grin that consumed Negan's cruel face.

Palms scraped and bloody, she shakily rose to her feet, her legs barely capable of holding her body up. The sun beat down on her back, and she found herself unable to move very fast. Her shoes dragged across the road as if she had turned into one of those things.

God, she couldn't remember the last time she'd had a proper cheeseburger. Or any proper food for that matter. Her stomach begged for something to fill it before it resorted to far worse things, yet she didn't have to strength she once wielded as easily as she did a gun.

Dried blood streaked down her face, her head throbbing as if filled with bricks. Staring through the haze clouding her view, she looked for signs of the people that brought her here. They'd just thrown her from the vehicle before speeding off, worrying what would happen the moment their boss learned of their vicious plans.

Negan didn't know she was here. Or gone from the compound. He believed she was still handcuffed to his bed, screaming and begging him to let her go. She could still feel the metal carving into her flesh, making her bleed onto the cleaned sheets.

Now, she was alone on the highway, abandoned by the people she couldn't wait to tear apart. However, she didn't feel delighted at her sudden freedom; she felt scared. Suddenly, she was no longer safe behind the walls of the Sanctuary.

Suddenly, Beatrice Hawkins was out in the world again, no weapon and no Tristan to keep her alive and breathing.

* * *

 _His hands were rough as they dragged along the noticeable curves of her body. She squirmed and writhed at the heat between her legs, her eyes clenched shut. Her nerves were alive with fire, and she could feel a knot forming deep in her stomach. The blankets were twisted in her tight grip as she released a shaky breath, her body coming down from the intense high he had had her on for so long._

 _A chuckle sounded fron his lips, and she opened her eyes to find Negan hovering over her, his lips stretched into a cocky smile. Pulling his hand back, he examined the juices coating his fingers and leaned back, staring down at her flushed body. She was breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling quickly._

 _"Shit, I might just keep you, baby girl," he teased._

 _Rolling her eyes, Beatrice sat up and swept a hand through her damp hair, licking her chapped lips. She threw her legs over the side of the mattress and tugged her shirt back on, avoiding his dark eyes._

 _After a moment, she said, "I can't do this anymore. I...I need to go and find someone. Tristan is gone, and I can't be here anymore."_

 _Negan sneered and spun on his heels, staring at her as she stood from the bed. He swaggered across the space, power radiating off him with each breath. Beatrice instinctively backed away until the felt the cool wall replaced by disbelief._

 _"Who?" She asked, a part of her terrified of the answer._

 _"You know who, baby girl."_

 _Her spine went rigid, a metal pole in her back. A frost coated her nerves as feeling disappeared from her being. He was lying. He had to be lying. He had given her his shoe, the fabric splattered with blood and the white laces stained and tattered._

 _"Tristan is alive. Breathing. He ran off with that cocksucker Rufio. I should've fuckin' known. They were always fucking around each other," he said._

 _Negan peeled away from her and sauntered off, moving like a viper who had just struck its victim. Beatrice watched him, her eyes blurring. However, she blinked away the tears, refusing to cry. She was done crying, especially when Negan and his men caused it._

 _Tristan was alive. He was fucking alive. He was alive and she was going to find him._

* * *

"What do you want?" Rufio demanded.

Rick Grimes scratched at his growing beard and leaned back on his heels, analyzing the odd scene before him. The entirety of the shelter was taken over by children, each of them painted with dirt. He wasn't sure why he was agreeing to do this, but they desperately needed help.

"We were attacked," Carl said, "We lost people. Now, we need supplies and more survivors. We need help fighting back."

Rufio glanced back at Tristan, their eyes meeting for a second that lasted for too little of a time. There was a nod, a shared agreement formed between them.

"Who attacked you?" Tristan placed himself beside Rufio, shielding his eyes from the blazing sun. Their hands touched, fingers interlocking, and the boys scooted closer, knowing they were better together.

"A man named Negan."

The tender moment fizzled and fell apart as Tristan went completely still, his eyes searching Rick's beared face for any show of deceit. His stomach twisted itself into a knot, and he closed his eyes, praying for a fresh breath of air.

Rufio leaned over, his sharp chain pressing into Tristan's shoulder as he brought his mouth to the boy's ear.

"What do ya think?" Concern. So much damn concern in his voice.

Licking his lips, Tristan whispered a silent prayer to whoever was listening and said, "We'll help you. On one condition."

* * *

 _Hands. Hands everywhere. Tearing at her clothes. Dragging her from beneath the mattress. She slammed into the ground, her head ringing with pain. They were pulling her away from the safety of the bed, away from the Sanctuary._

 _"Quiet! We can't have Negan findin' out! Throw the bitch in the van!"_

 _She slammed into a metal wall, the doors swinging shut and trapping her inside. Crawling her into the corner, she hooked her arms around her knees and curled them into her chest, listening to the voices of her captors._

 _"We're are we takin' her?" A man asked, a slight lisp in his tone._

 _"Anywhere away from here! I can't deal with the shit she causes! Negan will thank us when he realizes the bitch was no good for him!"_

 _Beatrice glanced at the screen blocking her from the men, a part of her cherishing the idea of being taken away. She could find Tristan. And anyone else that may be alive._

 _Something heavy bumped against her feet, and she squinted into the darkness, taking note of the red curls. Her throat closed up, and she quickly shoved her uncle away, cursing the Saviors for saving him and throwing him in here with her._

 _Rory groaned and blinked up at her, his hands pressed into his stomach. There was a flicker of pain, a flash of fear, and he turned onto his side, away from her._

 _She couldn't be given a moment of peace, a moment in which she could be alone and away from danger._

 _"Say goodbye to the Sanctuary, whore! You won't be seein' it again! Neither of you will!"_

* * *

Rory startled awake and realized he was moving. Not quickly. Just moving at a snail's pace. Lifting his head, he looked around him, taking in the shift in scenery.

"Stop moving or I'll shove you off."

His head snapped towards his niece, and he felt the sweat coating her body, soaking into his clothes.

"Of all the people in the world, they had to put you in that van, too," she muttered through gritted teeth.

He shifted and felt himself slide off, landing hard on the ground. His head was throbbing as it always did now, and he frowned, stating at the young woman standing above him.

"I told you to stop moving," she said, her voice lacking any anger. There was an irritated gleam in her eyes as she forced him to his feet, hooking his arm around her shoulders. They continued their journey, Rory slumped against the one person who wanted him dead.

A second or two passed before he asked, "Where are we going?"

Her eyes darted towards him before she focused on the road ahead, ignoring him.

"This'll go by better if you talk to me, Bea-Bea. We're going to find Tristan, aren't we?"

She stopped and lowered her head, a shadow passing over her face. The face that brought about images of family. Inhaling a deep breath, she nodded and began walking once more, repositioning her hand to keep Rory standing. There was strength in her grip, her nails biting into the skin of his side.

"Ho...how have you been?" He asked.

"Okay. Stop. Stop acting like everything is good. It isn't. We're going through shit. The world is going through shit. It's not like we're heading to the arcade or some crap like that. I'm tired, I haven't eaten in days, and I just got thrown out of a goddamn van. Cut the pleasant talk. Please."

He bit down on his tongue, the thin line of patience snapping. Tearing away from her, he stumbled and caught himself on the hood of a nearby car, his hands pressed against the heated metal.

Catching his breath, Rory looked up and said, "No! You have to talk to me, Beatrice! I'm tired of you saying shit! You left me back there in that cell! You left me there to fuckin' rot! You need to stop! You need to stop and realize that you're the only one still holdin' onto what happened! You're the only one still blaming me! Tristan doesn't hate me! He blames his father! Y'know, the one who put him in the damn hospital?! Am I sorry for telling your mom? Yes! Every fuckin' day of my life! But I'm sick and tired of trying to get you to see me like a friend again! I'm sick and tired of people blaming me for everything!"

Beatrice was breathing hard, her eyes on him. She began to crumble and break apart until her legs gave out, her knees slamming into the pavement. Her head fell forward as her shoulders sagged with guilt, her inner walls tearing apart. As the clothes on her body shifted with each movement, he noticed the bruises that colored her tan skin, the cuts lining her arms. Blood crusted around her wrists from where the handcuffs had cut into her skin.

Suddenly, he saw his sister. His sweet yet brash sister. The world twisted until he was seeing Ainslie in her wedding dress, the fabric perfectly ironed and pieced together. Wisps of hair fell from the braid around her head, tickling her pink cheeks. She raised her gre-no, her hazel eyes-to meet his, her lips pressed together in a thin line.

Bruises of varying shades dotted her dark skin, a painting of yellows and greens and blacks and purples. Blood drip, drip, dripped from the cut on her lip, staining the ivory fabric of her gown.

She parted her bloody lips and said in a voice that wasn't her own, "I'm scared, Uncle Rory. I can't do this shit anymore. I'm tryin' so hard to be like momma. To be strong like momma. But...but I'm not. I'm not her. I'll never be like her."

Rory sighed and sank down, landing on his butt. The pavement was unbearably hot against his skin, a blazing heat he decided to ignore.

"She's not dead. Your mom. I saw her before all this shit. Before I ended up with Negan and his people. She...she's not okay, Bea-Bea. But she's alive."

Beatrice sighed deeply and shook her head, her eyes blurring with tears.

"No. No, she's not. I saw her before that bastard took us to the Sanctuary. She...Oh, I'm going to be sick. She lost it. Every bit of it."

Beatrice made a run for the side of the highway as she emptied out the contents of her stomach onto the streets below, vomiting on the head of an unsuspecting Geek.

Confused, Rory walked to her side, his palm rubbing her back as he tried to figure out the riddle behind her words.

* * *

 _Grey had streaked through her hair, shocks of silver like lightning bolts. Ainslie Hawkins stood by the road, the very same road her daughter had ended up at during her hallucinations. However, Ainslie was not the youthful mother she had once been. She was all wrapped in browns and blacks, her face and hands the only visible skin._

 _"Momma?" Beatrice asked, not trusting her eyes. She stepped closer, grateful that Tristan had stayed behind to search for supplies. She couldn't imagine what he'd do if he saw their mother alive again._

 _"Hey, baby," Ainslie said in a soft voice. But she wasn't the same woman her daughter remembered. That motherly love wasn't there anymore."God, you're so beautiful."_

 _Beatrice tugged on strands of her hair and licked her lips, not trusting herself to speak._

 _"Where's Caleb, mom?"_

 _"He...he's gone. We don't have to deal with him anymore. Where's your brother?" Ainslie was looking around, her hands disappearing inside of her coat._

 _"Searching for supplies. What do you mean Caleb is gone?"_

 _The older woman stared at her mirror image, seeing more and more of Maddox in her. The grey of her eyes was intense, a color she had never forgotten, and she carried a fire in her that only he could burn for so long._

 _Ainslie quietly removed the gun from her belt and smiled, her eyes sad._

 _"It's been a long time since I've seen you, baby. So damn long. You've grown so much since you left. I bet Tristan has, too."_

 _Beatrice noticed the metal of the pistol, and her heart stuttered. She went to step frward until she saw the Geeks emerging from the dense trees._

 _"Momma, come with us. We have a camp for you!" She demanded._

 _Ainslie cocked her head and said, "I can't, doll. I...I've done bad things. Things Tristan doesn't need influencing him. Things you don't need to know about, baby."_

 _Beatrice lunged forward as the barrel of the gun was pressed to her mother's temple, and she made herself believe the hand holding it wasn't Ainslie's. It couldn't possibly be her hand. She stumbled over her shoes as her mother teased the trigger._

 _"I'm sorry, baby. I love you. So very much. I love you and your brother both. But I can't come with you."_

 _Time slowed to a near stop as Ainslie pulled the trigger, the bullet ripping through her skull, her brain, and out the other side. Blood and brain matter painted the pavement red. Beatrice clapped her hands over her mouth, tears tumbling down her cheeks. She fell back as the Geeks circled the corpse of her mother like a ring of vultures. The gun clattered against the ground, the sound echoing through the air._

 _She watched as the monsters devoured her mother, digging into her intestines and brain. She watched them tear apart her frail body, seeing herself beneath their hands instead of her dead mother._

 _Beatrice was trembling with each step she took towards camp, the image replaying over and over in her mind._

* * *

 **I'm not sure when the next chapter will be here, but hopefully it'll be soon. Thank you!**


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